Sacrifice
by LindaO
Summary: What would you give up for the ones you love? What should you give up? Reese and Finch understand sacrifice. They've both paid dearly to protect those they care about. But when love may cost a teenage girl her future and a teenage boy his life, can they write a better ending for their modern-day Romeo and Juliet? Casefic, S2 after "Bad Code". Chaos AU, after "By the Book".
1. Chapter 1

_ "Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." _C.S. Lewis

* * *

The young lovers waited outside the theater, just to the side of the main doors. The girl shivered, and the boy put his arm around her shoulders. "Pretty soon," he whispered. "Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared," she murmured back. "Just a little cold."

"That's my baby." He nuzzled her face until she turned, then kissed her full on the lips. "I told you this would be great. I told you, baby."

"Yeah," she whispered. Then she shivered again.

One of the theater doors opened and an old woman came out. She was small, almost lost in her full-length fur coat; her hair was freshly done, her face very pale, her lipstick very red.

Beyond the door, applause still sounded at the end of the show. The woman was, just for an instant, alone on the sidewalk.

She turned back toward the door. "Damn it, Teeny," she barked, "where the hell are you? Can't you keep up?"

"Go, go, go," the young man whispered. He put his hand on the girl's back and pushed her, hard.

The girl staggered a little, but she went quickly toward the woman. "Excuse me, ma'am? Ma'am?"

The woman turned on her. "What the fuck do you want?" she snarled.

The girl recoiled, surprised by the woman's venom. But the boy had the opening he needed. He ran to the far side of the woman, grabbed her purse, wrenched it out of her grip, and kept running. "Go, Lis!" he shouted.

The old woman snaked her arm out and grabbed the girl. "You aren't going anywhere. Teeny!"

Other people were leaving the theater. The girl pulled hard, trying to escape. "Cash! Help me!"

The boy swore and turned back. He grabbed the old woman's arm and shook her off the girl. "Let go of her, you skanky old bitch!"

A very, very big man in a good suit pushed through the crowd toward them. "Holly? Holly!"

The boy grabbed his girl's hand and they ran around the corner and down the alley, until they disappeared into the darkness.

The big man wrapped the small woman in his arms. "It's all right, Holly. I'm here. I'm here now. Are you hurt?"

She made a fist and hit him in the chest as hard as she could. It made him make a little 'oooph' noise. "Where the fuck were you, you big asshole? Jesus Christ and all the saints, you're a worthless lump!"

People in the crowd looked at the big man with sympathy.

He patted the woman's fur-clad shoulder. "It's alright, Holly. You're just scared. You're alright now."

"Asshole!" she snarled again. "Get my purse back and kill those little fuckers!"

* * *

Bear was happy to see him, but Finch barely nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Reese," he said perfunctorily.

"Finch. New number?"

"Yes. And a highly elusive one."

"You were due for a challenge." Reese put the bakery box down on the desk. "Sour cream coffee cake," he announced. "I thought we needed a change."

Finch merely nodded again. "Edward Clay. Eighteen years old. Originally from Oak Ridge, Connecticut, just outside Trumbull. His last schooling was apparently his sophomore year of high school." He gestured to a picture taped on the glass board. Clay had dark hair, long over one eye and greasy-looking, that only partly concealed his bad acne. He looked younger than eighteen. "Yes," Finch confirmed, before Reese could ask, "that's the most recent photo I can locate. But I'm working on a better one."

Reese picked up a slice of the coffee cake – he'd had the bakery slice it for him – and carried it to the board. "Got an address?"

"No known address. No cell phone registered in his name. No social media. He had a free e-mail account when he was in Oak Ridge, but it's been inactive for two years." F inch shook his head, exasperated. "I called his parents' home, posing as an Army recruiter, and spoke to his mother. She said he doesn't live there anymore. Then she hung up on me."

"He's a runaway?"

"Apparently. I've only taken a cursory look so far, but the family seems to be quite ordinary." He paused. "No missing person report was ever filed on Edward."

"He could be anywhere."

"No employment history, no bank account, no credit report."

John took a bite of the coffee cake. It was very moist. He chewed, swallowed. "He's got to be getting money somewhere. If he's got no job history, he probably has a criminal one."

"Possibly." Finch stabbed at his speaker phone, then reached for a slice of the coffee cake.

The phone rang just once. "What?" Fusco asked sharply.

"Good morning, Detective," Finch said.

"Yeah, it was, until you called me before I even had any coffee. What do you want?"

"Relax, Lionel," Reese said. "You don't need to put down your coffee. We just need you to run a name through your computer."

The detective sighed and grumbled, but keys clicked in the background. "Okay, go."

"Edward Clay."

"Uh … I got five of them. Wanna be a little more specific?"

"He's eighteen," Finch supplied. "Caucasian."

"Okay." There was shuffling as Fusco shifted his phone to his other shoulder. "Got him. He was picked up last winter, suspicion of petty theft. No priors. They kicked him loose without charges."

"Can you send me that report number, Detective?" Finch asked.

"Sure. That it?"

"That's it," John answered, "for now. Enjoy your coffee, Detective."

Fusco grunted and the phone went dead.

Finch checked his phone, then put the police report number into the computer. John read it over his shoulder. There wasn't much to read.

"Picking pockets on Time Square on New Year's Eve," Reese mused. "Well, that would be the place to do it."

"If he's supporting himself by picking pockets, this probably isn't the only incident."

"First time he got caught."

"He may be a perpetrator, rather than a victim."

"It's a big jump from picking pockets to murder." Reese studied the picture again, shook his head. "He's just a kid, Finch."

"He's an adult in the eyes of the law. If he commits a capital crime, he will be treated accordingly."

"Then we need to make sure he doesn't commit one."

"That may be easier said than done. We don't even know where to look for him. But," Finch added with some satisfaction, "this may give you a better idea what he looks _like_." He sent another picture to the printer. It was the same as the high school photo, but with the hair out of the boy's face and a bit of pixilated aging done. "Of course, he may have dyed his hair or acquired a nose ring in the interim."

"Better than nothing." Reese put the picture in his pocket. "He give an address when he was picked up?"

Finch nodded and returned to his computer. "The address is … _was_ a homeless shelter. St. Herman's. It burned down in March. Faulty wiring."

Reese nodded. "Send me the address anyhow. Someone may know where he went." He took another piece of the coffee cake and put it on a napkin, then closed the box and picked it up. "I'll go see what I can find out."

Finch looked at the bakery box longingly, but did not comment. "I'll see if I can find out anything more about the family, though I doubt that will lead us anywhere."

"You never know. Keep me posted." He patted the dog quickly and strode out.

* * *

Al Rossi tugged his tie straight and tried not to look nervous. He didn't have anything to be nervous about. He wasn't some punk kid sneaking sips of wine offthe grown-up table any more. He was the top lieutenant in a crime family now. He'd earned his position. He was his own man.

But his uncle's visit late-night visit had unnerved him. The old man still towered above him, for one thing. He'd always been a mountain of a man. For another thing, Al hadn't heard from him for years. When he was kid he used to get Christmas cards from him, stuffed with cash. 'Buy yourself something fun, Aldo.' But that had stopped when he graduated high school. Not that he'd needed his uncle's money after that anyhow.

Rossi tugged his cuffs straight and turned to his men. They all looked tired. They weren't used to early morning hours. But not one of them complained.

"We got to find a kid," Rossi said without introduction. "Homeless kid, little piss-ant pickpocket, calls himself Cash Clay. Get your ears out and find him."

"And then what?" Smithy muttered.

"And then bring him to me."

"Alive?"

"If you can. If he's dead, bring the body."

Most of the men just muttered understanding. Torres, of course, had to bitch. "What's so special about this kid?"

"I want him," Rossi snarled. "That's what so special about it. Find him. Bring him to me. That too complicated for you?"

"No, no. I got it."

"Good." Rossi straightened his tie again. "Get going."

As they filed out, Rossi let himself take a long, deep breath. Always somebody had to stick their mouth in. Always somebody had something to say. And most of the time, it was Torres. He might need to go.

He shook his head. Uncle T had always made it seem so easy. Of course, when you were the size of Teeny Bellatore, maybe nobody ever talked back. But Aldo was only six foot three, so he'd had to do things the hard way.

* * *

Detective Joss Carter didn't even make it through the front door of the precinct. She ran into Lionel Fusco – or, rather, he nearly ran into her – and he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards his car. "Good, you're here. Let's go." He was breathless, clearly agitated, and to Carter's eye a little pale.

"What's up, Fusco?"

"Tell you on the way."

"My car's right here," she said, pointing. "I'll drive."

Fusco shook his head, then changed direction toward her car. "Fine, good, whatever. Let's go."

Carter got behind the wheel. It took her partner three tries to buckle his seat belt. Carter blessed her intuition; she sure as hell didn't want him driving. "Where to?"

"North."

"Okay." She pulled out of the parking spot. Fusco turned on the blue lights. "Want to be a little more specific?"

"Chaos Café." He gave her an address.

Carter drove, threading through the traffic faster and better than Fusco would have. Chaos. She knew that name. Something about the owner. Something for John …

Before she could ask her next question, Fusco had his phone out. He clicked on the speaker, and she heard Reese's gravelly voice. "Morning again, Lionel. You got more on Clay?"

"No. Our girl's in trouble."

There was half a second of hesitation. "_Which_ girl?"

"Which girl. The one I give a shit about. Chrissy."

"What kind of trouble?" Reese demanded.

"There's a woman in the bar who says that she killed her husband."

Without preamble, Finch entered the conversation. "The _woman_ killed her husband, or _Christine_ killed him?"

"I don't know," Fusco answered. "There's a squad car at the scene, but the report's for shit. We're on our way now. Carter's with me."

"Have you spoken to Miss Fitzgerald, Detective?"

Fitzgerald. At the mention of the name, Carter remembered the details. The woman who hunted internet predators, wrapped them in tidy little computer files, and delivered them anonymously to the NYPD. The woman who'd dumped a massive kiddie porn ring on Agent Donnelly. John Reese's little virtual vigilante.

"Been busy moving my feet," Fusco complained.

"Call her now."

Lionel growled. Carter nodded sympathetically. John could be a royal pain, but he had nothing on his partner for rubbing them the wrong way when he got bossy. Fusco shook his head, conferenced the call, and dialed another number. It took him several attempts to dial it. Carter was _very_ glad she was doing the driving.

The number went directly to voice mail.

"Damn it." Fusco hung up and tried another number. It rang — and rang. No one answered. "Okay, Genius," he called, "now what?"

"Just get there," Reese snapped. "Keep us posted."

"Yeah, fine."

"And Detective?" Finch added.

"What?"

"Don't call her Chrissy."

Fusco swore, snapped his phone shut and jammed it in his pocket. He ran his hand over his face.

"Three minutes," Carter promised. She flicked at the siren, ran a stop light. "There's already a squad there, Lionel. Whatever's going on, she's okay."

Fusco smirked, bobbed his head. "Thanks, Carter. Just a hell of a thing to start the day with. Haven't even had any damn coffee yet."

"Well, we're going to the right place."

He lapsed into silence. Carter glanced over; her partner had both hands clenched into fists in his lap. "This girl, Fitzgerald. She was one of John's people a while back. Is that how you know her?"

Fusco looked over at her. His gaze was jerky, distracted. "They dragged you in on it, too?"

"Just background. That's where the big kiddie porn ring bust came from, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. She said she stumbled on it. I dunno. Didn't really ask." He pointed. "Turn there, go around the back way, you'll miss the traffic."

"Okay." Carter ran another light and turned left illegally. "But you knew her before that?" she pressed.

"Yeah." He seemed uncomfortable. "Known her since she was little. She's a good kid, Carter. If she killed somebody … I'll lay money he had it coming."

Carter nodded to herself. Obviously, she was the only detective on this case who was going to be at all objective. "You think it's likely? That she killed somebody?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know. Maybe. I don't know."

* * *

Reese touched his earpiece. "Finch? I'm going to Chaos."

"There are already police officers on the scene, Mr. Reese. Our friends are capable of handling the situation."

"We don't even know what the situation _is_," Reese argued. He slung the quick little car around the corner, stopped, and backed out into traffic. _Her_ car, he remembered. He'd been driving it for weeks. He'd meant to get it back to her. Except that it was inconspicuous and damn fun to drive. "If Christine killed someone, I need to be there."

Finch was silent for a moment. The keys clattered.

"You up on the cameras?" Reese guessed.

"Yes. And I'm not seeing anything alarming." Finch sighed, somewhat relieved. "There a single uniformed officer sitting at a table with Miss Fitzgerald, a priest, and an old woman."

"What are they doing?"

"Drinking coffee."

"It sounds like the beginning of a joke," Reese said. "A priest, a cop, a hacker and an old woman are sitting in a coffee bar …"

"It would be a better joke if a man hadn't been murdered," Finch snapped.

Reese nodded to himself, appropriately chastised.

"Mr. Reese," Finch went on, "I know you're concerned, but you need to keep your distance. Agent Donnelly continues to show a special interest in Miss Fitzgerald. If he learns that she's involved in a crime, even potentially, he's likely to put in an appearance."

"I'll be careful, Finch." He turned north at the next block. And then, though he already knew the answer, he asked, "Did you talk to her yet?"

There was a very long pause. "This isn't the time, Mr. Reese." His voice would have made a hot spring ice over.

Reese nodded to himself. It had been more than a month since he'd rescued his employer from Root, and the recluse still hadn't spoken to his young hacker friend. John understood his reasons. He just didn't agree with them. If it went another week, he decided, he might have to talk to Christine himself. The odds that Root would find her were just too high to let it go.

Finch wouldn't like it. But maybe he didn't need to know about it.

Still, Harold was right in this: Until the murder in the café was resolved, this wasn't the time.

Finch was also right that Fitzgerald's name on the police wire was likely to stir up Agent Donnelly's interest. He needed to keep a safe distance. To let Carter and Fusco handle this, if possible.

That didn't mean he had to like it. And he definitely didn't.

It was turning into one of those days when nobody liked anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Devin pushed his rickety shopping cart near the street, trying to avoid the people hurrying by. They were just as happy to avoid him; he looked like he smelled bad, and he did.

He stopped at a trash can and picked through it, looking for aluminum cans to recycle.

The young mobsters approached the old man slowly. They glanced at each other, trying to look cool, but they were both thinking the same thing: _These street people could be batshit crazy._ "Hey, old man. Hey."

Devin looked at them warily. "What?"

"We're looking for somebody."

"I ain't nobody." He backed away slowly, pushing his cart behind him.

"Not you, old man. We're looking for a street kid. Calls himself Cash. Cash Clay."

"Cash Clay?" Devin stopped retreating and blinked up at them. "Cassius Clay? The boxer? He homeless now, too?"

The two young men looked at each other. "What?"

"The boxer. You don't know?"

"No. Look, old man, we're looking for a kid. Just a punk kid. Not a boxer. Cash Clay. You ever heard of him?"

"Nope. Heard of Cassius Clay, though. Everybody heard of him."

Torres men drew out a business card. It just had a first name, Leonardo, and a phone number on it. He liked to pass them out to girls in the clubs. That wasn't his real name, and he changed his phone number every few weeks, but the cards were cheap. "If you hear about him, you let me know, okay?"

Devin looked at him sidelong.

The shorter one pulled out his wallet and handed the man a ten dollar bill. "You call us, okay?"

The man took the card and the money and put them way, way down in his shirt. "Sure."

As soon as they were out of sight, he took the two papers back out again. "Huh," he said, reading the card. "Huh." Then he put it away again, took the ten dollars and looked for the nearest corner store.

* * *

Carter paused at the door of the café to get a read on the place. It was almost empty. A very big guy wearing a white apron stood by the front door, evidently keeping people out. He looked her over, looked at Fusco, and didn't say anything. Fusco didn't seem to notice him. He barreled into the coffee shop. A young woman stood up from the table – there were only a handful of people there — and the detective wrapped her in a bear hug.

Which was weird, Carter thought, but it was weirder that the woman put her arms around him and hugged him right back. It was kind of nice to see Fusco getting a little love. She got the feeling it was rare for him.

_Too bad that's our murder suspect,_ she thought. She was the only one there that fit the description she had of Fitzgerald.

The uniformed patrolman stood up from the table, and Carter did a double-take. He looked younger than Taylor. He was Hispanic, dark hair and eyes, but his skin was too pale and his eyes were too bright. He looked scared. "Uhhhh …" he began.

He had a couple badly-concealed acne spots, and the faint medicated scent that she knew from her teenage son was Oxy-10. She couldn't believe someone had given the boy a gun. Of course, he couldn't really be as young as he looked. It was still jarring.

She flashed her badge. "Detective Carter, Homicide Task Force. This is Detective Fusco."

"Oh. Oh." He didn't look any less confused. The fact that Fusco was still literally squeezing the suspect didn't help. "I'm, uh … uh, Sanchez. Joe Sanchez."

At the table, the old woman stirred. "Do we have to go now?" she asked faintly.

The younger woman pulled away from Fusco. "Not yet, Mrs. Antonucci. You're fine. We're going to talk. You stay with Father and finish your tea."

"Oh. Alright, then."

Carter looked the old woman over. She was very thin, drawn. Looked like she might be in pain. She held herself stiffly, as if she didn't want to move at all. She was dressed in an old but very fine black brocade suit, and held a worn silver rosary between her fingers.

The priest was middle-aged, a bit on the pudgy side. He looked concerned, but calm. He was keeping it together.

Besides the four at the table and a very big man by the door, the café was empty.

Fitzgerald gestured the detectives over to the bar, far enough that the old woman couldn't hear them if they kept their voices down. Fusco kept his hand on her arm. At the bar he said, quietly, "What the hell, Scottie? Whose husband did you kill?"

Instead of answering, she shot her free hand out, grabbed the young officer by the front of his shirt, and pulled him close. "One job, Officer Jailbait. You had _one job_."

His cheeks went pink. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I called it in right, I swear I did, I was really really specific …"

She sighed extravagantly, released him, smoothed his shirt, and turned back to Fusco. "I didn't kill anybody's husband. Thanks for asking."

"So who did?" Carter asked. She looked back toward the priest and the old woman. "Her?"

"That's, uh, that Mrs. Antonucci," Sanchez explained. "She, um, she went to her priest first thing this morning and confessed that she'd killed her husband. He brought her here and they placed a called to the precinct. My training officer and I responded …"

"Who's your training officer?" Fusco interrupted.

"Helms. Jack Helms."

"Good man," Carter commented. "You're lucky."

Sanchez smiled fleetingly. "Yeah, that's what everybody says … "

The young woman moved around the end of the bar. "Coffee?"

"Please," Fusco said emphatically.

She looked to Carter.

"Sure," Carter answered. And then, "I'm Joss Carter." She stuck her hand out.

"Christine Fitzgerald. But everybody calls me Scottie." The woman had a decent handshake. A lot of women didn't. "It's nice to meet you." She got mugs from the shelf, poured one straight for Fusco, added cream but no sugar to one for Carter.

"You know how I take my coffee," Carter commented uneasily.

The young woman smiled reassuringly. "I'm big on details." She gestured to Sanchez. "Go on."

He nodded. Christine's manner with him was light, teasing, like a big sister, and he seemed reassured by it. "I … uh … right. So Helms and I responded, and, uh, we found the body at the reported address, and he, uh … we found the body and …" He went pale again.

"And Helms sent you here to keep an eye on the suspect," Carter supplied, "while he waited for CSU."

He nodded, grateful. "Yes. Yes. And I, uh, I called the report in to the precinct and I was _really_ specific, just like she said …"

Christine poured another mug, only half-full. She poured in a quarter cup of cream and a lot of sugar. She stirred it, pushed it toward Sanchez.

He reached for it. His hand shook visibly.

"First DB?" Carter asked.

"First … oh, dead body. Yeah. Yeah."

Fusco shook his head. "You'll be okay, kid. Drink your coffee. The sugar will help."

Christine looked over his shoulder and said, very softly, "Yeah, but _he_ won't."

"What?" Sanchez asked. His voice edged toward panic. "What?"

The woman gestured, and police all turned. Special Agent Donnelly was striding across the bar toward them. "What the hell?" Fusco muttered. "He still hassling you?"

Christine shrugged. "We've reached an understanding." She reached for yet another mug.

From the alley across the street, Reese watched through the lens of his camera. "You were right, Finch. Our friend Donnelly is here."

"I can assure you, Mr. Reese, he is no friend of yours."

"At least he wants to take me alive."

"I believe he added the qualifier, 'if possible'."

"He's just doing his job, Finch."

"I suppose so," Finch admitted reluctantly. "At least we know Miss Fitzgerald didn't kill anyone."

"No. We only know that Miss Fitzgerald didn't kill Mrs. Antonucci's husband. "

"I suppose you're right. I am rather curious as to why Mrs. Antonucci did, though."

"I'm sure we'll find out." Reese looked through the lens one more time. "Keep me posted. I'm going to see if I can track down Edward Clay." He clicked off his ear piece and trotted back to his car.

"Agent Donnelly," Carter said, "what are you doing here?"

He ignored her, stared at Fitzgerald. "Who did you kill and why?"

She sighed again, unimpressed. She poured a little sugar in his coffee. "Have you met Officer Sanchez?" she said, gesturing to the uniform. "He has a problem with pronouns."

"I don't!" he protested. "I reported it exactly right. Just the way you told me …"

"I'm messin' with you, sweetie."

He stopped in mid-word, blushed.

"Now tell the nice man from the FBI that I didn't kill anyone."

"She didn't," Sanchez earnestly assured Donnelly. "She didn't, Mrs. Antonucci confessed to her priest this morning …"

Donnelly held up one hand commandingly. "Stop. Just stop. I've already heard enough hysterical reporting for one morning." He looked to Carter. "What's going on here?"

"We were getting to that when you decided to make a federal case out of it," Fusco grumbled.

Donnelly shot him a look that should have intimidated him. Fusco looked right back. _Whoever this girl is to him, _Carter thought, _he'll go to the wall to defend her._

But she didn't seem to need it. "Okay, Junior," Christine said encouragingly to Sanchez, "once more, from the top."

"Try to get it right this time," Donnelly snarled.

Carter generally liked Donnelly well enough, but he was on her last nerve already this morning. _ Where's he get off talking to poor Sanchez that way? That's our rookie, not his._ She turned her shoulder, consciously moving closer to the young officer.

Sanchez took a deep breath, swallowed, and started over. "Early this morning Mrs. Antonucci —" he gestured to the old woman, "—went to her parish priest, Father Wendt, and told him, confessed to him, actually, that she had killed her husband last night. He brought her here …"

"Why?" Donnelly snapped.

"Sir?"

"Why did he bring her _here_?"

Sanchez spread his hands, confused. "Because … this is where you go, in this neighborhood. When you're in trouble. You come here."

Donnelly scowled at him.

"They have a pre-school at the church," Christine supplied. "He wanted to get her out of there before the children started to arrive."

"She released the priest to repeat this confession?" Fusco asked.

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah."

"Go on," Carter said to Sanchez, before Donnelly could speak. It was probably the poor boy's acne, she realized, that made her feel so protective of him.

"Right. So the priest brought her here and Scottie, um, Miss Fitzgerald, called the precinct and they sent us out, me and my training officer. He's with the body now, waiting for the Crime Scene Unit."

"Why did she kill him?" Donnelly asked.

The young officer shook his head. "He had severe Alzheimer's."

"And?"

"And … she has cancer. "

"You got a probable cause of death?" Fusco asked.

"She says she poisoned him. Overdosed him with her morphine."

"That fit with what you saw?" Carter prompted.

Sanchez nodded. "I guess. I mean, he's …" He shot a nervous look at Donnelly. "She cleaned him up, dressed him in his good suit, laid him out on the bed." He glanced at the old woman, swallowed hard. "She combed his hair. She said … he was a little vain about it, that he still had a full head of hair, when all his brothers lost theirs early. Said he always wanted to have it nice. She was real worried about that, um, that we didn't mess up his hair."

There was a brief silence. Donnelly started to say something, and Carter cut him off. "Sanchez, why don't you go keep an eye on Mrs. Antonucci?"

He looked around the little group again. His eyes were still too bright, and he seemed actually afraid of the FBI agent. He nodded and moved back to the table.

Donnelly sighed heavily. "All right," he said to Fitzgerald, "what did he leave out?"

"He got the facts right," Christine answered. "He's just missing the background. Frank's Alzheimer's was diagnosed five, six years ago, but it's gotten significantly worse this year. Six months ago he began to refuse to leave their apartment, and shortly after that he refused to let Rosa leave _him_. He would cry inconsolably any time she was out of his sight, even to shower."

"And?"

"Three weeks ago she had a fall. The paramedics had to transport both of them, and they had to flat-back Frank the whole time they were at the hospital."

"Flat-back?" Fusco asked. "Drug him unconscious?"

"Yeah." Christine looked out at the woman. "Her cancer started in her lungs, but it's everywhere. She's dying. Soon."

"How soon?" Donnelly asked.

"What time is it now?"

He looked at her. It was an odd look, one that Carter wasn't sure how to interpret. "You're saying she mercy killed her husband?" she prompted.

Christine nodded. "In the best and truest sense of the word."

"It's still murder," Donnelly said quietly.

"They were married for sixty-two years. He might have lived another ten, maybe twenty. And every waking moment of all those years he would have cried for her. He couldn't have understood where she was or why she'd left him."

"You sound like you approve," Donnelly challenged, but his voice remained soft, without an edge.

She nodded. "I'm sure you don't, Ellis. But I get this. It makes perfect sense to me."

_Ellis__?_ Carter thought. _They're on a first-name basis? Does John know that? _"Why didn't she kill herself, too?" she wondered aloud.

"Suicides go to hell," Fusco answered immediately. "She can be granted absolution for murder, but not for suicide." He made a face, evidently a little embarrassed by his instant recall of his childhood catechism. "So now what do we do with her?"

"You take her into custody," Donnelly stated simply.

"Uhhh … I don't think they want to do that," Fitzgerald offered.

"She murdered her husband. What do you want them to do? Drive her home and make her a nice cup of tea?"

"I already made her a nice cup of tea," she answered calmly. "But if she's in custody, the city may be on the hook for her medical bills and final expenses."

The agent stared at her like she'd lost her mind.

_Way to throw his smug ass off balance, _Carter thought with satisfaction. And mostly because she knew it would irritate him even more, she asked her, "What do you suggest?"

"Take her to the hospital for evaluation," Christine supplied readily. "They'll keep her for observation and pain management. You can request an administrative hold, if it'll make Agent Donnelly happy, but it's really not necessary." She shrugged. "She'll be gone by morning."

"Gone where?" Fusco asked. "You think she's gonna run?"

"Gone home to Jesus," Carter corrected softly. She looked toward the old woman again. Then she looked back to Christine. "Are you sure?"

"Aren't you? She's got 'I'm done here' written all over her. She might stay for one more sunrise. Maybe."

Donnelly shifted, mulling it over. "All right."

"Actually, Agent Donnelly," Carter pointed out, "I don't see where the FBI has any say in this case."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "You're absolutely right, of course." He looked back to Christine. "The Man in the Suit. Have you seen him?"

"Nope." From her tone, they'd had this snippet of conversation many times.

He nodded, unsurprised. More gently, he asked, "You alright?"

"I'm fine," she promised.

"Good." He drained his mug. "Thanks for the coffee." He put two dollars on the bar. Christine rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue.

"Hey, Ellis," she said, before he could leave. "Office Clearasil over there? He'd never seen a dead body before this morning."

His eyes narrowed. "So?"

"So he's rattled and you're a big authority figure." She waited; he pretended he didn't get it. "So don't be a dick."

_Cheeky_, Carter thought. _I like it._ She watched Donnelly closely. She guessed he wasn't used to dealing with people being cheeky at him. He stared at her for a long moment. Christine stared right back.

Finally a very small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "First kittens, now rookies. What next, Miss Fitzgerald?"

She smiled back. "This is Chaos, Agent Donnelly. Anything can happen and usually does."

He sighed, grumbled, but he stopped at the table on his way out and took Officer Sanchez aside for what Carter assumed was an encouraging word.

The detective couldn't help herself. As soon as he was out of earshot, she wheeled back to the young hacker. "_Ellis?"_

"Yeah," Fusco joined in, "what the _hell _is up with that?"

"Ellis," Christine repeated serenely. "His grandfather named him. After the island."

"How do you even know something like that?" Fusco demanded.

She shrugged. "I asked."

"Why would you ask?"

"Details. I love details." She looked past them to make sure Donnelly was out the door. "And speaking of which, here." She reached under the bar, brought out a white envelope and a flash drive, and slid them both across the bar.

"What's this?" Carter asked.

"This," she tapped the envelope, "has copies of Mrs. Antonucci's advanced directive and DNR. The hospital should have them, but take it along, just to be on the safe side." She touched the flash drive. "These are your reports. They're about ninety percent complete. You'll need to fill in the details tomorrow, dates and times and ME report numbers and such."

"You … filled out our police reports."

"I got anxious."

"Police reports are like score cards?" Fusco asked, as if he knew what she was talking about.

"Aren't they?"

"Where'd you get the forms?" Carter pursued. Then she changed the question. "How'd you get into the data base?"

Christine raised one eyebrow. "Like it's hard? I only hacked in once, I promise. Then I assigned myself a user name and password."

Carter rubbed her eyes. "You know, if Donnelly knew that, he'd never let you out of his sight."

"I know."

The detective shook her head, looked toward the old woman again. "We should call a bus."

"She'd rather go out on her own feet," Christine supplied. To Carter's look, she quickly added, "But it's your call."

"Thanks a lot." She thought about it. "All right. Fusco, why don't you go look at the body? I'll take Mrs. Antonucci to the hospital." She looked to Christine. "You want to ride along?"

"I'm sure she'd rather have the priest."

"Okay." Carter drained her own coffee. It was very good. She'd have to come back some time when she could actually enjoy it. She eyed Donnelly's dollars on the bar. Technically speaking they weren't supposed to accept gratuities, even coffee.

But there was a difference between having a good moral compass and just having a stick up your ass.

She tucked the white envelope into her pocket and palmed the flash drive. She was going to take the free coffee, and though she'd look it over carefully, she was going to let a civilian do her paperwork, too. And she was going to do those things just because they would make Ellis Donnelly pitch a fit if he ever found out.

* * *

John Reese surveyed the empty warehouse calmly before he went in. There were a dozen homeless men and women moving around quietly. None of them looked familiar, but he hadn't paid much attention to faces while he was living here. And thankfully, they hadn't paid much attention to his.

But Joan was there, balling up old newspapers to drop into the fire barrel. The daytime weather was mild and the fire was out, but after sundown they'd need it again. He smiled and moved toward her. "Good morning, Joan."

She turned and smiled back. "John! It's good to see you."

"I brought you coffee cake." He held the bakery box out to her.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Sweets for the sweet."

She rolled her eyes at him, but she took the box, took out a slice, and then handed it off to another man. She took a bite. "Ohhh, that's delicious."

"Moist," John agreed. "I need your help."

"Anything."

"I'm looking for this boy." Reese drew two pictures out of his pocket, Clay's high school photo and the one Finch had Photoshopped for him. "His name is Edward Clay. He may be a pickpocket, petty thief, something like that."

Joan looked at the pictures closely. "I don't think I've seen him. Where does he stay?"

"The last address he gave was St. Herman's. I know it burned down. Do you know where the residents went?"

"I do, some of them. But a boy that age wouldn't have been staying there. St. Herman's was all old men. They wouldn't have let him in. They would have been afraid of him." She took another bite of the coffee cake, chewed slowly. "Although, if he gave that address … there was a little camp just up the hill from there. Under the bridge. Lot of young ones there. The priest who ran St. Herman's would feed them, when he had extra."

"That sounds like a place to look, then. Do you know where I'd find the priest?"

"He's dead."

Reese looked at her. "In the fire?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. He was quite elderly himself. The shelter was his whole life. When it burned down his heart just broke." She finished the coffee cake. "Literally. He had a heart attack three days later."

"Okay. I'll start at the camp, then."

John's phone vibrated in his pocket. He grabbed it and clicked it off without looking at it.

"There's someone who might be able to help you, though," Joan continued. "He's an ex-convict who helped at St. Herman's. He's a good, good man, a golden heart. I think he's working with Street Reach now. If your boy was in the camp, William might know where to find him."

"Where do I find William?" John asked.

Joan tore off a corner of a newspaper, held her hand out for John's pen. She wrote an address quickly. "This is where he works," she said. She wrote a second one. "This is a soup kitchen. He serves there some evenings. He's a good man, a nice man. William Robinson, his name is."

John looked up sharply. "William Robinson?"

"Do you know him?"

"I've met him once or twice. You're right, he's a good man."

"So are you, John." She patted his arm. "You doin' okay?"

Reese nodded. "I'm okay. Had a little … close call a few weeks back, but I'm okay now."

"This boy you're looking for. He's in trouble?"

"Yes." Or about to cause some, Reese thought.

"You find him, then. You get him straight."

"I'll do my best."

"You always do. Thanks for the coffee cake." She patted his arm again and moved to pick up more papers.


	3. Chapter 3

**1985**

The first day of school was always weird for Jocelyn, but this year felt weirder than most. Two important things had changed over the summer. The first was that her grandmother had died. It wasn't a tragic death, or unexpected; she'd sat on the back porch on the 4th of July and watched the kids set of firecrackers and light sparklers. She'd laughed until her eyes glistened with happy tears. In the morning, when they went to wake her for breakfast, she was dead.

It was just the way life went, Jocelyn's mama said. People grow old and they die. Grandma'd been sick the winter before, just the flu, but she hadn't bounced back. She was just old, worn out. Ready to go home.

But it was weird to think she wouldn't be sitting in her chair in the corner of the kitchen when Jocelyn got home from her first day of school.

The other thing that had happened over the summer was that Jocelyn had, in her grandmother's gentle words, gotten her growth. She'd shot up three inches taller, but hardly anyone noticed that. What they did notice was that the skinny little girl suddenly had decidedly womanly curves.

Or, as Jocelyn's trampy older cousin put it, tits and ass that would stop traffic.

Jocelyn's mom had made sure that she had clothes that covered everything, that were modest , even though it stretched the family budget. But the girl still felt self-conscious as she set out for school that first day. Exposed. Obvious.

Remembering her cousin's comments didn't help.

She met up with Toni and Angela at the end of the street and they started across the woods together. It wasn't really much of a woods, just a few dozen skinny trees in the middle of a big vacant lot. There had been some kind of factory there once, fifty years ago, but now it was just rocks and weeds and scraggly trees. All the kids from Jocelyn's neighborhood cut across the woods to school, unless it was muddy. Then they had to go around. But on the first day of school it was dry and warm.

The neighbor boys were just behind them in a pack. In Jocelyn's grade and the one ahead and behind there were seven boys, compared to just the three girls. Sometimes the older kids walked with them, and or the younger kids, but these ten from the street were always together.

This morning, Jon's older brother Zach was walking with them. He was three years older than Jocelyn, and he had beautiful pale green eyes. He was the hottest boy in the hood, and he damn well knew it. He'd never paid any attention to the younger girls before, but Jocelyn saw his head snap around when he saw her.

He wasn't the only one. But he was the only one he cared about.

She knew exactly what her grandmother would have to say about the way that boy looked at her. She kept her eyes down and just stuck to her girls. But it was hard not to notice that Zach walked close behind her. She could feel his eyes on her ass. It made her uncomfortable. But she wasn't sure she didn't like it.

She knew she _shouldn't_ like it.

Up ahead, the little kids started to squeal and point and a couple of them ran away.

Jocelyn and the bigger kids ran toward them. By the time they got there, the little kids who'd stayed were in a loose circle around something on the ground.

Jon said, "Ooooh, gross, man!"

Angela turned away. Toni grabbed her arm, but she kept looking.

Jocelyn stared down at the body.

She was – had been? – a young black woman, maybe twenty. She was slender, had long legs. Her hair was in cornrows. Her nails were long and painted bright blue. She had on one shoe, a black sandal with a skinny heel. She had a short purple skirt. She had a white blouse, but it was torn open. She didn't have a bra.

Zach breathed, "You can see her titties!"

Jocelyn glanced at him. Then she looked back at the body. She _could_ see the woman's breasts. She could also see the ground beneath her, through the hole in her body where her heart should have been.

One of the other boys says, "Wow, cool."

"No!" Jocelyn said firmly. "Not cool. Not cool." She dropped her backpack and dug out her jacket. Mama had made her take it because it might rain later. She moved closer and put the jacket over the woman's body. It would get dirty, bloody, and Mama might be mad – no, she wouldn't. She would understand.

She turned to her girls. "Angel, you live closest. Run home and tell your mom to call the police."

The girl just looked at her.

"Go!" Jocelyn snapped. Her girlfriend ran – in the right direction.

"Damn, girl," Zach muttered, "calm down."

"I want to see her titties again."

"Don't you touch her." Jocelyn glared at the boy. He was one of the little ones, and she didn't know his name. It didn't matter. "Nobody touch anything."

"What, you a cop now?" Jon teased.

"C'mon," Zach said. "I don't need no trouble with the cops. I'm going to school."

The group began to break up, following his lead.

Jocelyn looked toward the school. It was only two blocks away. If she stayed here much longer she was going to be late. Mama would be mad about that, even if she didn't mind about the jacket.

She looked at the remaining circle. Most of them were the smaller kids. "Go on. You're going to be late for school. Get moving."

They left, reluctantly. Toni stayed next to Jocelyn. "You should go," she offered.

"I'm stayin'," Toni whispered.

Zach stopped at the edge of the field, and the group stopped with him. "Hey, Jocelyn. Come on. Leave that skank and come on."

Jocelyn looked up at him. Even from a distance, those pale green eyes were beautiful. And he knew her name. He'd never known her name before. Never even known she was alive.

_He knew her name._

"You comin'?" he called again.

She could just go. The cops were on their way. The girl was dead; there was nothing she could do for her.

Except the cops wouldn't know about the woods, wouldn't know that no one ever walked through here except the school kids. They wouldn't know that the boys on the football team had walked through her yesterday afternoon, so the body couldn't have been there then. There was a lot she could tell them about the woods, and the neighborhood.

The dead woman had probably been there all night, alone. Jocelyn didn't feel right about leaving her alone now.

She heard her grandmother's voice in her head, as clear as if the woman was right beside her. _Well, Jocelyn? Are you going to do what's right, or are you going to chase after that pretty-eyed boy?_

She looked at Zach and shook her head.

"Freak!" he jeered. He and his friends laughed, and they went on to school.

"Freak," Jocelyn whispered. It hurt. First he knew her name, and now he called her freak.

"He's an asshole," Toni whispered back to her. "Maybe the cops will be cute."

Jocelyn looked at her without raising her head. "You ever seen a cute cop?"

"Well … no."

"Firemen," Jocelyn said. "Firemen are cute."

"Well, what, you want to start a fire?"

She shook her head. "I'm probably in enough trouble already."

* * *

**2012**

Finch paced the library briskly. He wouldn't have admitted to himself that he _was _pacing, except that every time he passed Bear's bed, the dog looked up at him hopefully, then slumped back down. The fourth time he made the poor beast look up, Finch had to acknowledge that he was, in fact, pacing.

"Sorry, Bear." He paused to bend down and pat the dog's head. "I'm making you nervous, aren't I?"

The dog thumped his tail on the floor sympathetically.

"I don't know why this is so difficult," Finch told him, straightening. "We should just go and talk to her." He made another circle around his desk. "Mr. Reese is absolutely right, you know. I have to talk to her. I should have done it weeks ago. I should just do it. Just get your leash and go."

The tail thumped more enthusiastically.

"But not yet," Finch added. The dog slumped again, but the genius barely noticed. "Not just yet. After the morning she's had …" He sat down behind his desk. "Funny thing," he said, mostly to himself. "I promised I'd never lie to _him_. But to myself, I lie all the time." He glanced at the dog again. It was comforting to not be talking to himself, precisely. "Except I'm not very good at it, I'm afraid."

His hands shook as he reached for the keyboard. He stopped and made himself take several deep, slow breaths until they steadied. Then he composed the e-mail, but didn't send it. He reached for his phone, and it rang in his hand.

Finch regarded the device as if it had just delivered his stay of execution. "Good morning, Detective Carter."

"Morning, Finch. John's not answering his phone?"

"He's in a meeting right now, I believe. Is everything alright?"

"I just dropped off Mrs. Antonucci and the priest at the hospital. They're going to keep her. Not much else to be done on that one."

"We appreciate your assistance, Detective."

"Don't see where I did much."

"You were a comforting presence," Finch answered.

"Right, whatever. Listen, your girl Fitzgerald? There's something up with her and Donnelly. They're on a first-name basis. And way too cozy."

Finch nodded to himself. "I am aware of the relationship, Detective."

"And you're aware that he's still looking for the Man in the Suit, right?"

"I assure you, there's no reason to worry."

"One wrong word, Finch. That's all it would take."

"Detective, Mr. Reese and I place absolutely faith in Miss Fitzgerald's discretion. Please do not concern yourself with this."

There was a very long pause. Finch could picture in his mind the expression on Carter's face. The annoyed mouth, the narrowed eyes, the head-tilt. "Did you set it up? So she could keep an eye on him?"

"I did no such thing, Detective." Finch deliberately put as much ice in his voice as he could muster.

From _her_ tone, Carter was only marginally impressed. "Fine, fine. It's your funeral."

"Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Detective," Finch answered with finality.

"Whatever." The phone went dead.

Finch clicked his own phone off, but kept it in his hand. His thumb hovered over the keys.

He did not have access to the surveillance cameras inside Christine Fitzgerald's apartment. If he'd attempted to reach them, she would have been both infuriated and intimidated. But she had no problem with him watching the cameras in the café, and he'd hacked the city's cameras outside as well. He didn't watch her all the time, but he did look in on her occasionally, and more often since Root had kidnapped him.

He'd watched the night she went out with Agent Donnelly the first time, when she'd kissed him on her back steps. He'd also watched their two encounters after that. There had been no additional kissing except quick pecks on cheeks. It had perhaps started as a romance, but had quickly detoured into simple companionship. They had dinner together, they shared old movies at an older movie house, and they sat in the café afterward and talked.

Finch was fairly confident in his assumption that the FBI agent was the one who had quashed a more physical relationship. Christine had a somewhat alarming habit of taking any man who caught her interest into her bed. _She uses sex in lieu of true intimacy,_ Finch mused. _Given her history, that's not surprising. It is, however, sad._ Donnelly had, for whatever reason, definitely caught her interest. But he hadn't taken her up on her offer. From _his_ past history, Finch gathered that the agent required a good deal more emotional content with his conjugal assignations. That he needed, in short, commitment with his sex. That wasn't surprising, either. Commitment might as well have been Ellis Donnelly's middle name. Grudgingly, Finch had to respect him for that.

Still, perhaps Carter was right. As long as the peculiar relationship between Miss Fitzgerald and Agent Donnelly persisted, maybe he should just stay away from her. No point in taking any chances, was there?

On the other hand – Reese had been exactly right about Christine's unabashed impulse to help anyone who seemed to need it. She'd invited Donnelly into Chaos simply because he was sitting in his car in the rain, despondent and alone in his quest to find the Man in the Suit.

An old woman came into the café and confessed to murdering her husband. Christine's first response was to make her a cup of tea.

_Exactly as she did for me, the night I wandered into Chaos in desperate need of a decent computer, even though I once had her committed. _

And if Root showed up with a convincingly sad story, Christine would do everything in her power to help her, possibly until it was too late.

Finch knew from personal experience that Root was very good at contriving convincingly sad stories.

He looked up at the unsent e-mail on the monitor. Then he looked at the phone again.

Bear stood up, padded quietly across to him, and put his muzzle on Finch's knee.

Finch rubbed his ears thoughtfully. "You just want to go see your kitten, don't you?" he asked fondly.

The dog wagged his tail slowly.

"Fine. If you insist." Finch pressed his thumb down on the phone.

Perhaps she still had her cell phone turned off. She did that more than anyone he'd ever … "This is Scottie," she said.

Finch tried to speak. The words got stuck.

"Hello?" she said again.

Bear licked his hand, just once.

"Hello, Christine," Finch managed to say.

Her voice softened immediately, from business-friendly to simply friendly. "Hey, Random."

"I'm sorry I haven't called. Thing have been quite …" he stopped, because he didn't know what to say.

"It's okay," Christine assured him. "How've you been?"

_How've I been? I've been fine. Barely have any days with more than one or two panic attacks any more. Thanks for asking._ Finch shook his head. "A better question would be, how have _you _been?"

She chuckled softly. "Yeah, I kinda figured you were up on this morning's events. I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"They were nice people. I'll miss them. And I'm sorry they had to go through this. Especially Rosa. But … this makes sense to me, you know? Emotional sense?"

"Yes." Finch could feel himself relaxing in tiny but steady increments. Somehow in his mind she'd become a stranger. But she wasn't a stranger. And more to the point, she wasn't Root. He knew Christine. He knew her well. Emotional sense, indeed.

"But it also raises this big existential question. So now I'm debating whether I should load up on philosophy books and try to logic this out, or just let myself know what I know. And that sentence made no sense at all, did it?"

"I understood it, whether it made sense or not," Finch assured her. "The first question is, as always, what's the question?"

"Oh, that's easy. 'Would you do it?'"

"Ahhh."

"I have this overwhelming urge to stop people on the street, explain the situation, and ask them that question. I have this idea that if you knew that answer, that one answer, you'd know everything you need to know about that person. Which I know logically is wrong, but … I don't seem to be able to quit babbling."

"I don't mind," Finch promised. He loved how open she was with him. He savored the knowledge that he was the only person in the world with whom she was so unguarded. He missed their lunches together, the two of them talking tech, their words falling over each other. The way she engaged him, encouraged him. Brought him out of his own shell, just for a little while. It seemed like years since they'd talked.

It had been just over a month. Four weeks and two days, and one kidnapping by Root.

Perhaps her dinners with Donnelly were her way of replacing the lunches she had missed with Finch. Perhaps she required the platonic presence of an older man somewhere in her life, and when he stopped calling her she'd turned to the most viable substitute …

Finch shook his head. It was absurd. A more likely explanation was what Carter had implied: That she was trying to get close to Donnelly in order to find out what he knew about Reese. Finch hadn't asked her to do that, certainly, and he never would have. But she was fully capable of coming up with that idea on her own.

It was an uncomfortable notion.

And, he realized, a foolish one. When Christine was focused on a task she was meticulous, methodical, detail-oriented. If her intent had been to seduce Special Agent Donnelly for the purpose of obtaining information, she would have done her homework. She would have known how his past relationships had formed and how they'd failed. Known better, in short, than to invite him upstairs on the first date.

No, the encounter with Donnelly not been thought out in advance. It was a whim, an impulse. With no clear goal, she could be a very impulsive girl.

Christine on-task was painfully OCD-focused; Christine off-task was Chaos Incarnate.

"And it's weird," Christine went on. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad you called, but … I've spent the last ten, eleven years all on my own, doing just fine, and now all the sudden any time I stub my toe I've got people rushing in from all directions to help me to the fainting couch."

_Dealing with a woman who's just killed her husband isn't exactly a stubbed toe_, Finch thought. _Neither, for that matter, was being assaulted at the airport; that bruise lasted for weeks. _He didn't point those things out. Instead, he said, "You don't even own a proper fainting couch. Perhaps I need to acquire one for you."

Christine chuckled uneasily. "I don't suppose there's any point at all in telling you no."

Finch pretended to consider. "No."

"I don't have room for it."

"Then you need a bigger apartment, obviously."

She growled very softly. "If you go for the fainting couch, nothing expensive. The kitten's starting to scratch."

"Ah, yes." Finch patted Bear's head again. "How is Smokey doing?"

"Well. We've started weaning, but she's not very excited about it yet."

"Be patient."

"I know. She's stupidly cute."

"I'm sure she's adorable."

"I'm on the verge of becoming that annoying friend who sends you fifty funny cat pictures every day. "

"Heaven forbid." Finch rubbed Bear's ears for luck. Then he took the leap before he could change his mind. "But speaking of pictures, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"I'm sending you an e-mail with two attachments. One contains several pictures of a woman. The other is examples of her coding. I need you to study them both and to keep an eye out for her. If you see her, or even think you see her, I need you to let me know right away."

"Give me a place to start, I'll find out who she is …"

"_No_!" Finch snapped. "You're not to look for her. You're not to do anything of the sort."

"Okay," Christine answered swiftly. "Okay."

Finch exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He hadn't meant to snap at her. And he hadn't meant to create the sudden emotional distance he felt between them. "Christine, listen. Please just listen. I already know who she is, and she's incredibly dangerous. I don't want you to do anything that might attract her attention. I don't want you to do anything at all. Just _watch_ for her."

Bear licked his hand again, and Finch realized that he'd balled it into a fist. He made himself open his fingers and wiggle them.

"Okay," Christine said again. "Just watch. Got it." She'd caught her breath; her voice was clearly trying to soothe _him_.

He should have gone to her in person. She'd handle it better if he was right there beside her.

"I'm sorry," Finch said again. "I don't mean to alarm you. But this woman is very dangerous and very wily. There's some … remote … chance that she'll turn up at Chaos. If that happens, if she approaches you, or if you catch sight of her on the web, anything, just … don't engage her. Call me or John right away. Understand?"

"Yes."

"I'll explain everything, I promise …"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Random," Christine reminded him firmly.

And she meant it. Despite her intelligence and her curiosity, and though by her own admission she had a million questions, she had never demanded explanations. She'd never even asked for them. Root had learned about the Machine and wanted to know everything about it; she wanted to control it, despite her insistence that she wanted to 'set it free'. Christine had learned about the Machine and trusted that Harold knew best. She asked nothing. Her trust was humbling, terrifying. And wonderful.

"I _will _explain," Finch said firmly, "because you need to know. Because I need you to know. But it will have to wait a little while."

"Alright." Her voice had gone small again.

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her not to be afraid. But the truth was that she needed to be afraid. That she could not be afraid enough of Root. It tore at his heart. But it had to be done.

"We don't think she's in the city," he said, by way of compromise with himself. "And the odds are that she won't show up for a while."

"What does she want?"

_Me_, Finch thought. _She wants me_. If he said that, he knew, there would be no end to Christine's questions. Or her fear. "I'll explain everything later. I promise. Right now Mr. Reese and I are occupied with a new Number."

"A what?"

Finch shook his head. Christine was already aware that they helped various people —_Random's higher calling. You said it was me right now. Which implies that it's … other people, at other times —_ but she didn't know the mechanism involved, that the all-seeing Machine identified the people in trouble for them. It wouldn't hurt to explain that now. It was a mere detail compared to the knowledge she already had. "There's a young man in trouble. When we've located him and neutralized the danger, I'll have time to tell you everything you need to know."

"Alright. If you need any help …"

"We'll call you. Thank you, Christine."

"Always … exciting to talk to you, Random."

He smiled wryly and hung up the phone. Bear looked up at him expectantly. "Oh, yes," Finch assured him. "That went exactly as I expected it to." He'd scared the young woman half out of her mind, and filled her with questions he wasn't quite ready to answer. There was no backing down now; he would have to tell her everything about Root. He knew he needed to, but now he was fully committed. In a way, it was a relief.

In another way, he was as frightened as she was.

He put the phone down and rubbed the dog's ears again.


	4. Chapter 4

Once he was in the neighborhood, Reese remembered that fast food joint where William Robinson had worked the first time he'd seen him. It had been the very first Number John had ever worked. Diane Hanson. It seemed like a very long time ago.

The woman at the counter told him that Robinson wasn't scheduled until four.

John knew where the man lived; he'd broken into his apartment once. But he decided to try the soup kitchen first. As he'd hoped, Robinson was clearing tables. Reese stood near the door and waited. He wasn't sure that the man would remember him.

The man turned to greet him, and his brown eyes got very wide.

Evidently he remembered.

"Mr. Robinson?" Reese said quietly. "My name's John. We've met before." He put his hand out.

"Course we have," Robinson answered. He took John's hand in both of his own. They were rough, but warm. He squeezed just a little, the way a strong man does when he doesn't want to hurt anyone by accident. "You saved my life. Never knew your name, but I give thanks for you every night, pray for your safety."

His words twisted in the center of Reese's chest. "I appreciate that," he said sincerely. "It's probably done me some good."

William released his hand and glanced around. "You don't look like you're hungry."

"No. I was hoping you could help me find someone." He drew the pictures out of his pocket. "His name's Edward Clay."

Robinson looked at the pictures carefully. He tucked the actual high school picture behind the altered one. "Cash, he calls himself. Cash Clay. Course he's too young to know why that's funny." He shook his head. "This picture isn't quite right, but it's close."

"Do you know where he stays?"

"Sometimes at the Savoy. Or the Rex." They were nicknames for very low-end hotels; John had stayed in them both. "Sometimes at the camp up the hill from St. Herman's — where it used to be."

Reese nodded. "I know the place. Does he ever come in here?"

"Once in a while. Not a regular, though." Robinson looked out over the tables and sighed. "Funny sort of boy. Always polite. Most of them aren't." He shook his head. "He's awful young, John. I tried to talk to him, get him back on the path, but he's not ready to hear yet."

"Is he using?"

"I don't think so. Never seen it, anyhow. Doesn't seem to drink, either. Just, uh …"

"A little petty theft?" Reese prompted gently.

Robinson nodded sadly. "Wallets, purses, maybe shoplifting. Probably. I don't think he's violent. Seems to have a good heart, really. Only hits the high end. And he seems to look after that little gal of his."

"He's got a child with him?" John asked sharply.

Heads turned. Robinson took his arm, showed the others that there was no danger. "No, no. She's young, younger than him probably, but she's a teenager. Skinny little thing, though. I tried to get her to eat, but she only took a few bites. She seemed scared."

"Scared of Clay?"

"No. She was good with him. Like I said, looked like he was looking after her. But she was new to the street. Too clean, you know? Too much stuff in her pack. Like that."

John knew exactly what the man meant. "When was the last time you saw them?"

Robinson considered. "Tuesday, week ago yesterday. I work mornings on Tuesday, come here in the afternoon. They were here at dinner time."

"Had you ever seen the girl before?"

"Just once. The week before, Thursday."

Reese took out a card and gave it to him. "If you see them again, or just Clay, could you give me a call?"

"He's in danger, is he?"

"I'm pretty sure he is, yes."

Robinson tucked the card away carefully. "There might be another place you could look for him," he said slowly. He looked around again. "There's a butcher shop, Clancy's." He pointed out the door and east. "Ten blocks that way. Word is he'll pay a little cash for credit cards, ID's, things like that."

John nodded thoughtfully. It made sense that Clay would take any cash out of the wallets he stole, then try to sell the other items to someone who knew what to do with them. "Thank you, Mr. Robinson."

"William, please."

"William."

"'I'll ask around, see if anyone else knows anything about the boy."

"Thank you." Reese took the pictures back out and gave them to him. "These might help."

"Call you if I hear anything. Sure you don't want some soup? It's good."

John smiled gently. "I know. I remember." He left the soup kitchen and headed up the street.

* * *

Dion and Little Jo-Jo leaned against the back of a ticket kiosk and smoked little skinny cigars. Neither of them liked the taste much, but they were what Al smoked, so they were what they smoked.

"This is a waste of time," Dion complained. "What the hell are we doing here?"

"Puttin' time in," Jo-Jo answered. "Aldo asks if we looked for the kid, we say yeah, we asked around up on Broadway, where he hangs, but nobody seen him."

"Oh. Damn. You're smart, Little Jo-Jo."

"Quit callin' me that."

"Your mama calls you that."

"You ain't my mama, are you?"

"No, but I been with her. And she was goooooood!" He laughed and dodged as Jo-Jo swung at him.

"You asshole," Jo-Jo said. "You never been with any woman, and you never will be with that little thing you're packin'."

"Yeah? How do you know what I'm packin'?"

Jo-Jo grinned. "Your mama told me!"

Dion took a swing at him, but Jo-Jo ducked it easily. They did a little more pushing before they settled back against the well.

"We could look," Dion said.

"Huh?"

"We could, you know, actually look. Talk to some people, see if we can turn up the kid."

Jo-Jo looked at him. "You crazy, man?"

"I'm just sayin'. Aldo seemed to really want this kid."

"Yeah, I don't give a shit what Aldo wants. He's just keepin' the seat warm. I ain't bustin' my ass for him."

Dion squinted at him. "You think Torres is going to make a move?"

"Yeah, soon as he finds his balls." Jo-Jo shook his head. "We all know the only reason Al's there is because his uncle backed him for it. And Teeny's been out of the game a long time. He's not payin' attention, and he don't care of Aldo gets bumped."

"I don't know," Dion said. "You ever seen that guy? Teeny? He's a freakin' monster."

"He's an old man."

"He's an old man the size of a Mack truck. I ain't messin' with him."

"You don't have to," Jo-Jo promised. "You just gotta wait until Torres mans up and takes over."

"I guess."

"Guess nothin'. You want to go look for this kid, knock yourself out. Me, I think I'll so find me some honey to spend some time with."

Dion snorted. "You're gonna need a fat ass wallet to get any sugar, man."

"Shit. Bet I can score before you do."

"You're on. Let's go."

* * *

"Any luck, Mr. Reese?"

"Not yet, Finch, but I have a couple new places to look. What can you tell me about a butcher shop called Clancy's?"

"Hold on." The keys clicked softly, with certainty. "They've been cited three times in the past year for health violations. I don't think I'd buy any of their sausage."

"Good to know." Reese stopped across the street and watched the storefront. "They don't seem to do much business."

"I'll take a look at the financials. Why are we suddenly interested in fresh meat?"

Reese scanned the street. There was a black town car at the end of the block. Nothing surprising there; they were almost as common as taxis in the city. But the blacked-out windows drew his attention; again, nothing new, but not quite as common. The car was running. He snapped a picture of the license plate with his phone and sent it to Finch. "Just sent you a plate. Run it first, please."

"All right."

"The word on the street is that Clancy also does a little business in stolen credit cards." Reese crossed the street and walked down past the town car. Through the windows he could only see vague shapes inside, two in the back and a driver He walked around the corner and circled to the back of the shop.

The keys continued, quiet, competent, in his ear. "The vehicle is registered to a Genevieve Rossi," Finch reported. "Address on the upper West Side."

"Hmmm."

"No criminal record … although her father has quite a long one. He seems to have been one of Don Caparelli's lieutenants."

"Mob princess," Reese mused. "Interesting."

"And apparently keeping it in the family. Her husband, Aldo Rossi, seemed to be an up-and-comer in the mob."

"Any reason he'd be after Clay?"

"Not that I've found so far." Finch sounded aggrieved. "I'm sending you a picture of him now."

Reese glanced at his phone. He couldn't tell if Rossi had been one of the shapes in the car. "Tell me about Clancy's." He found the service door, listened for a minute, and then picked the lock.

"They are barely breaking even," Finch announced after a few minutes. "Just the owner and two employees, and the owner hasn't drawn a paycheck in two years." There was another pause. "But they recently installed a T-1 line."

"The better to steal identities with." Reese pushed the door open two inches and listened again. There was no reaction. He could hear a television set, far away, probably in the front. He opened the door a little further and looked around.

There was no one in the back room. Reese went inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

There was a narrow walkway up the center of the back room. To the left was a huge walk-in cooler; to the right were two long stainless steel worktables. Behind them was a counter, cluttered with meat trays, cleavers, knives, a grinder, a slicer, a roll of cling wrap as big around as Reese's thigh. At the end of the counter nearest the door was a laptop, in sleep mode. There was a door to a tiny room with a small sighed that read 'Restroom – Employees Only'.

At the front of the room, strips of heavy plastic separated the front of the shop. Reese could see a young woman behind the counter. She was leaning against the meat case, watching some soap opera on a small TV. Just on the other side of the doorway, an older man with red hair dozed in a lawn chair.

"If Clay stole Aldo Rossi's wallet, that may be why he's in danger." John moved behind the work tables and slipped a flash drive into the side of the laptop. It woke up; the screen saver was a sea of flaying dollar signs in various colors. While the computer downloaded, he looked underneath the counter. There were boxes of papers, some junk and clutter, but nothing that looked like wallets and purses.

"You think he'd kill a man for lifting his wallet?" Finch asked.

"That would depend on what was_ in_ the wallet, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so."

Reese snagged the flash drive out and tucked it in his pocket. Then he looked toward the cooler thoughtfully. He checked on the dozing man and the bored girl again. Then he slipped into the cooler.

There were sides of beef hanging, and pork. Dead chickens. Huge tubs of sausage. And at the very back, a curiously empty little work table. There was a box beside it, half-full of wallets and purses. On the shelf below the table there was a shopping bag from Macy's. It held, at a guess, two hundred credit cards and ID's.

"Okay," Reese breathed. "Guess we'll find out." He took the bag and moved back to the cooler door.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard the bell over the front door of the shop. He slipped into the narrow spot between the cooler and the wall to watch. The skinny young girl who came in barely glanced at the counter girl; she clearly wasn't there to buy any meat. Instead, she went and stood in front of the dozing man.

"Mr. Clancy?" she said quietly.

The man stirred, looked up at her. "Hey. Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's outside."

"You got something for me?"

The girl nodded.

"C'mon back, then." The man heaved himself out of the chair with some effort and walked toward the back room.

Reese ducked further back into the little space.

The girl looked very young and very thin. She had dark brown hair with big streaks of bright purple through it, long and dirty-looking. Her clothes were dirty, too, but they'd come from some mall somewhere, not very long ago. She wore a backpack, sky-blue with flowers on it. It was half-full.

Clancy went around the work table and turned back to the girl. "Show me."

The girl brought two leather wallets out of her jacket and handed them across. The butcher opened the first one with quick efficiency and shuffled through the cards. "Platinum Amex. Nice. Nebraska, huh? Time Square?"

"Ground Zero."

Clancy grunted and turned his attention to the second wallet.

The front door of the shop flew open and Edward Clay ran in, past the front cases and straight into the back room. "We gotta go, we gotta go." He grabbed her arm frantically and dragged her toward the back door.

"What … "

The door banged again, and Aldo Rossi and one of his guys came in, obviously chasing Clay.

Clancy said, "Oh, shit!"

He picked up a cleaver, but Reese was more concerned about the guns Rossi and his man had. The teenagers ran past his hiding place and out the back door. Reese stepped out and stuck his arm out to clothesline the first man — the muscle, as it happened, not Aldo. He dropped like a rock. Behind him, the young mobster yelled, "Smithy! Out back! Get them!"

Reese threw a short-armed punch at Rossi's face and he staggered back. He dropped his gun in the process. He wasn't out, though; he scrambled up and back. John started after him. The butcher came around the far end of the work table and stood in his way.

He still had the cleaver in his hand.

Reese paused for a split second. The man pulled his hand back threateningly, waving the cleaver near his ear. That was all the opening the ex-op needed. He moved in fast, threw a combination at the man's unprotected ribs. The butcher made a predictable 'ooooff' sound and doubled over, bringing the cleaver down conveniently into Reese's grasp. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted hard. The blade clattered to the floor and he kicked it away. Then he banged the butcher's head against the table and dropped him.

He looked toward the front of the shop. The door was already closing behind Aldo Rossi. The counter girl stared at him. Reese shrugged his jacket back into place. "Sorry for the mess."

"No problem," she answered calmly.

John retrieved the bag of stolen property, added the two new wallets, and let himself out the back door. He looked both directions, but there was no sign of the young couple or anyone pursing them. The black town car rolled past the end of the alley slowly; with the dark windows, Reese couldn't tell if they were looking for Clay or for him. In either case, the car sped away.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch worried in his ear.

"I almost had Clay, Finch," Reese answered. "Aldo Rossi is definitely after him."

"Rossi's a third-tier mobster at best," Finch told him. "He only has a dozen or so men in his direct organization."

"Well, he's short one now." John stalked toward the end of the alley and back toward the main street.

It was instinct, he supposed, more than any special perception, but something told him to stop and wait. He tucked into the back doorway of the next business, half-concealed, and waited.

It was less than two minutes before the teenagers came up from their hiding place, in a stairwell two doors past Reese's position.

The girl looked very scared. But William had been right in his assessment: It wasn't Clay that she was afraid of. It was everything else on the street.

"Who were those guys?" she asked anxiously.

"I don't know," Clay answered. He kept his arm around her, protectively. But he was skinny and young and inexperienced. He wasn't really much protection. "But don't worry. They're after me, not you. You'll be fine."

"They had guns."

"Yeah, I noticed."

Reese stepped out of the doorway and strode toward them. "Edward Clay? I need to have a …"

The girl squeaked. The boy swore. And then, unexpectedly, Clay shoved the girl hard into Reese's chest. He caught her by her upper arms to keep her from falling. The boy spun and ran the other direction.

John started after to go after him. The girl grabbed his wrist and held him. He stopped to pry her fingers loose. By then the boy was gone.

But he still had the girl.

The minute he stopped trying to chase Clay, she released his hand and tried to run the other direction. He grabbed her arm again. "I don't think so."

"Let me go!" she snarled. "Let go, you … you f-fucker!"

Evidently she didn't have much practice at swearing. "No."

She pulled and struggled wildly. Reese didn't have any trouble detaining her with just one hand; his fingers circled her upper arm easily. "Let go, you fucking pervert!" she yelled. She was getting the hang of swearing now. She elevated her voice to a scream. "Help! Somebody help me! He's trying to hurt me! Help me!"

"You'd be better off yelling 'fire'," Reese told her calmly. "Where's Clay going?"

"I'm not telling you anything," she snarled. "Help! Somebody help me!" She sounded genuinely frightened, but she tried hard to cover it with anger.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. "Is there a problem?"

The girl tried to pull free one more time. John just shook his head. "What's your name?" he asked.

She stopped pulling. Her eyes filled with tears. "You're hurting me."

Reese loosened his grip a little, but didn't let her go. "I'm not going to hurt you. Your boyfriend's in danger, and I need you to help me find him."

She looked at her feet, sniffed. "Let me go."

"Where is Clay going?"

Unexpectedly, the girl brought her free hand up and slashed at his face with her nails. From the sting, she got at least one nail against his skin. Reese clamped his hand over her wrist and held her immobile. "Stop that."

She threw her head back and screamed.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said again, more urgently.

John looked around the alley. No one had shown up to help the girl yet, but it was only a matter of time. He had Stills' badge in his jacket; he could walk it off. But he'd need a free hand to flash the badge, and he didn't relish letting her take another kitten swipe at him.

His face stung.

He slid his right hand down until he had her wrist. Then he pulled both hands behind her back and held them with one hand while he brought out handcuffs. The girl continued to scream and struggle. Reese snapped the cuffs on her, grabbed the bag of credit cards and the girl's pack with his other hand, and marched her around the corner to his car.

On the street, several people noticed the screaming girl in handcuffs, but no one tried to interfere. They looked at her, at him, and then they looked away. Reese growled to himself. Sometimes he hated the city.

He opened the door and put the girl in the passenger seat. She kicked and squirmed and continued to yell. Her obscenities became more fluent by the minute. Reese ignored her while he buckled her into the seat. He slammed the door and went around to put the bags in the trunk.

The man from the newsstand took a few steps toward him. "Hey," he called. "You a cop?"

It was all Reese could do not to go shake the man's hand. Instead, he pulled Stills' badge out and waved it at him. The man simply nodded and retreated.

John got in the car. The girl was still shouting. In the confine space of the car, the volume was almost painful. "You can quiet down," he said, "or I can gag you."

"You can't gag me, you fucking asshole!" the girl shrieked. "Cops aren't allowed to gag people!"

"True," Reese answered. He took out his handkerchief. It was fairly clean. "But I'm not really a cop."

The girl opened her mouth to swear some more, and he stuffed the handkerchief into it.

"Mr. Reese!" Finch said firmly. "What is going on there?"

John knew the genius could hear the girl's muffled complaints, and probably her furiously kicks at the floorboards. "At least I didn't kidnap a baby, Finch."

"Who is she?"

"She's Clay's girlfriend. She can probably lead us to him, once she settles down."

"And what are you going to do with her in the meantime?"

Reese turned the rearview mirror and checked the mark the girl had made on his cheek. It was just a scratch, barely bleeding, but it hurt. "I don't know. What do you usually do with screaming teenagers?"

"Have them committed," Finch answered immediately. "But barring that solution … perhaps this would be a good time for you to return the car."

John looked at the young woman beside him. She was still screaming behind the gag. But behind her rage, there was true fear in her eyes. She was new to the street. In the space of five minutes she'd been threatened by gunmen, abandoned by her boyfriend, and essentially kidnapped by a tall strong stranger. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. But he could see that she didn't believe him, and honestly, he could understand why.

Return the car, Finch said. It sounded like the best possible solution.


	5. Chapter 5

It was nearly lunch time by the time Carter and Fusco headed back to the precinct. "Wanna grab something to go?" Fusco asked.

Carter nodded. But when they got to the car, there were two white bags sitting in the middle of the front seat. She could tell from the smell that one of them was a corned beef sandwich. Fusco's favorite. There was also the faint scent of dill pickles. She didn't doubt that the other bag held a turkey sandwich, on rye, lettuce, tomato, mayo, from her favorite deli. Knowing Finch, her bag also had salt and vinegar chips and a big chocolate chip cookie. Fusco's would have barbeque chips and a snickerdoodle.

She buckled her seat belt, looked over at her partner. Sometimes it annoyed her, how much John's secretive boss knew about them. Sometimes she just let herself enjoy it.

"We deserve it," Fusco said, as if she'd made any comment. He dug into his bag and took a bite out of his cookie. "Hell of a morning."

"Yeah."

"What'd the hospital say?"

"Same thing your girl said," Carter answered. "Off the record, of course, but they don't expect Mrs. Antonucci to make it until morning."

"Huh."

Carter was silent for a moment. "Would you do it?"

"What?"

"Kill your wife."

Fusco smirked. "Would I kill my ex if I had half an excuse? You're asking the wrong guy, Carter."

"Yeah, never mind." She grinned gently. From what she'd heard, there wasn't a week that went by when Fusco didn't give some passing thought to killing his ex.

"In her position, is what you mean, right?" Fusco continued. "I don't know. I'd have to think about it. For a really long time."

Carter nodded thoughtfully. "I think … I would. In that situation. No way out, no hope. If I knew he was going to suffer like that. But yeah, I'm with you, I'd have to think about it for a long time. And I'd have to be damn _sure_ there wasn't another way out."

"I don't think there was, in this case."

"If there was, I can't see it." She shook her head. "She gave him_ all_ her morphine, did you know that? All her pain meds for the week."

Fusco shrugged. "She wanted to be sure she dropped him."

"Yeah. But she didn't keep any for herself, for overnight. And she was hurting. By the time we got her to the hospital she could hardly move."

He dropped the rest of the cookie back into the bag, his appetite apparently gone. Carter didn't figure that would last. "Tough old bird."

"Devoted."

They were silent for a few minutes.

"So," Carter finally said, "tell me about your girl Scottie."

Fusco shrugged, but his mouth made a tight little circle like it did when he wasn't happy. "Nothin' much to tell. I've known her since she was in high school. Nice kid. Smart. She's wound a little tight, though."

"A little?"

"Okay, a lot. But she'd do anything for anybody."

"Donnelly sure is interested in her."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"He thinks she can lead him to John. Finch says not to worry about it."

"He's right." Fusco shook his head. "She won't give them up, either of them. It's kinda weird, though. The last time I saw her with Donnelly, she took a big chunk out of his hide."

"What about?"

"She laid a big 9/11 guilt trip on him. About how the FBI and the CIA should be trying to stop real threats instead of playing grab-ass with each other."

"She said that?"

"Yeah, and pretty much in those words. Accused him of pissing on the bushes to mark his territory. It was freakin' _epic_. I mean, not really fair, but epic."

Carter frowned. "And now they're all cozy."

"Some guys like the abuse. And the rest of us just get used to it."

"I guess." She parked behind the precinct. They each claimed their take-out bags and went inside. "She jacked him around about Sanchez enough."

"I noticed. Damn, that kid looked young."

"He uses the same acne medicine as Taylor," Carter answered. "I think we're getting old, Fusco."

"Not us," he promised. "No way. The Academy must be robbing the cradle now."

"Yeah, I like that answer better." Carter put her bag down on her desk. "Poor kid. I remember my first DB on the force." She shuddered. "He'd been in the water for three days. The smell was what got to me."

"Floaters, yeah. Especially once they start to warm up." Fusco unpacked his lunch. "This guy, Antonucci? He was pretty, for a corpse. All clean, dressed. Guess that doesn't matter. Your first is your first."

The floated hadn't been the first dead body she'd ever seen, Cart thought, just the first one she saw while she was carrying a badge. But that was a story for another time; she didn't bother to correct him. "What was your first like?"

Fusco didn't answer. After a minute, Carter looked up. He was standing very still, with a sad, blank expression frozen on his face. "Fusco?"

He shook himself. "Yeah. Yeah. My first was … Chrissy's father." He looked down, fussed with the paper under his sandwich.

"Scottie," Carter corrected gently.

"Yeah, Scottie. She hates it when I call her Chrissy now. Can't say as I blame her."

"Is that how you met her? Working her dad's case?"

Fusco shook his head slowly. "There wasn't a case. Not much of one, anyhow. He came out of the bar and pointed a gun at us. We shot him."

"We?"

He shrugged again. "There were twelve cops there. He had eight bullets in him. But … the one from my gun was the one that killed him."

"And they made_ you_ go tell the girl?"

"Nobody had to tell her. She was standing right beside me."

"You shot her father dead in front of her."

"Yeah." Fusco still wouldn't look up.

Carter stared at him for a minute. It didn't make any sense. The woman had thrown herself into Fusco's arms the minute she saw him. It couldn't be … "Oh," she said suddenly. "Oh, right. I get it. You don't want to tell me, Fusco, that's fine. That was good. You had me goin' there for a minute. Good one."

Fusco looked up then. "Carter, I'm tellin' you the truth."

"Sure, sure. Now pull the other leg." She shook her head. "You had me goin', Lionel. You really did."

He sort of chuckled and shook his head. "You want some coffee, Carter?"

"Sure." She handed her mug to him. He took hers and his own and went off to the break room.

Carter sat down and finished unwrapping her lunch. She hesitated for a moment — was Fusco's story even possible? But it wasn't. It didn't make any sense. She shook her head again, at him and at herself. "What a jerk," she muttered, chuckling.

* * *

It was much easier to call Christine the second time. "Hey, Random," she said when she heard his voice. "I swear, I haven't done anything."

"I know," Finch assured her. "I need a quite different favor now."

"Okay, shoot."

"How do you feel about children?"

"Ambivalent," she answered immediately. "If you want me to provide you with an heir I'm willing to discuss it, but you should know that my parenting skills are probably negligible."

On the line, Reese groaned audibly.

Finch chuckled. "Congratulations, Miss Fitzgerald. You've just become the second woman to horrify Mr. Reese today."

"Well, damn, who beat me to it?"

"Just open the back door," Reese said. From the sound of his voice, he was speaking through clenched teeth.

* * *

He'd given the girl the option of walking up the steps on her own. She'd said something unflattering about his mother behind her gag. So Reese hauled her out of the car, tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her up.

She was very light. It was like carrying a fragile child.

Christine opened the door and stared at him. Reese waited for the questions.

"Is it our anniversary already?" she finally asked. "I didn't get you anything."

She stepped back. Reese carried the teenager into the living room and set her on her feet. She kicked out at him and screamed again behind the gag.

"The apartment's pretty soundproof," Christine said calmly.

The girl went silent. She stared at the woman, at Reese, and then back at Christine. "Going to settle down now?" Reese asked. He reached over and took the handkerchief out of her mouth.

"You let me out of here, you mother fucking pervert! You fucking asshole, you can't just put handcuffs on people …

She went on. Christine ducked into the bathroom and came back out with a bottle of liquid soap. She held it up calmly where the teen could see it. "Listen up, sweet pea. I don't your name and I don't know your story. I do know that this stuff tastes awful. And I know that you are not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap."

The girl froze and stared at her, silent at last.

"Thank you," Reese said to Christine. He steered the teen to the couch. "Sit down. Take a deep breath. Tell me your name."

The girl sat. Her rage seemed to drain out of her. John could almost see her fear taking over. She began to tremble.

Christine walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The girl turned to watch her. Her brown eyes were wide now, and tears began to fill them. She was looking to Christine for comfort; Reese knew that in threatening her with something as ordinary and harmless as washing her mouth out with soap, the hacker had made herself the less-threatening opponent.

He wasn't sure that was an entirely accurate assessment, but it served his purposes.

"Hey," Reese said softly, drawing her attention again. "What's your name?"

The tears finally overflowed and trickled down her cheeks. John took a tissue from the side table and wiped them for her. "Nobody's going to hurt you. What's your name?"

"Lis," she finally whispered.

Over her shoulder, Reese saw Christine pour a glass of orange juice, then stir something else in. "Lis? Not Liz, Lis?"

She nodded, sniffed.

Christine brought the juice over, with a bendy straw stuck in it. "Drink this," she said, holding the glass in front of her.

The teen blinked up at her.

"Screaming like that rips your throat up. I know. Drink."

Reese wondered what Christine had mixed into the drink. But she met his eyes calmly and he didn't ask. The teen leaned forward and took a sip, then made a face. "It's too sweet."

"Stevia. It's got no calories."

"Oh." Lis took a longer drink.

Christine looked at Reese again. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to take from the look.

"Can you …" Liz jiggled the handcuffs behind her back. "These kinda hurt."

"Uh-huh." Reese touched the scratch on his cheek. "So does this."

She sniffed. "I'm sorry."

He brought the key out. Christine put the juice down, moved over to her computer and pressed a few keys. Reese heard almost subliminally quiet clicks at each door and window. The apartment was secure. He released the girl. She rubbed her wrists, sniffed again, got a new tissue and blew her nose. But she didn't try to run.

"Have some more juice," he urged.

She picked up the glass and drank a little more. "You're sure this doesn't have any calories?" she asked anxiously.

"Pretty sure," Christine answered.

"Where can I find Clay?" Reese pressed.

The girl looked at him. Her eyes were still tearful, scared. She looked back to Christine. "Can I use your bathroom?"

Reese sighed. "Wait a minute." He went into the bathroom, threw a bath towel open on the floor, and sorted quickly through the drawers and cupboards, dropping anything the girl could use to hurt herself onto the towel. He made a bundle and grabbed Christine's big first aid box, then stepped back into the hall. "Here you go," he said.

Lis stared at him. Then she went into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

Christine met him in the hall. "You think she's suicidal?"

"I don't know what she is." He handed her the bundle. "Put these under the bed, would you?"

"Sure." She went and opened the hidden drawer Finch had built for Reese's emergency clothes.

Reese retrieved the teen's backpack and went through it. There were a few clothes, twelve dollars and some change, an SD card, and a pawn ticket. No ID. Christine came back, and Reese handed her the computer card. "Can you copy this and send it to Finch?"

"No problem." She went over to her computer set-up, which took covered all of what should have been her dining room.

He listened for the teenager. There was no sound from the bathroom. "She can't get out of there, can she?"

"No. The window's sealed."

"You're just not going to ask, are you?"

Christine glanced up from the computer, gave him half a smile. "I learned a long time ago, never ask a question you don't really want the answer to."

Reese studied the claim ticket. "You have a copier?"

"I have a scanner and a printer."

"Close enough." He took her the claim ticket; she returned the SD card.

"Is she in danger?"

"No. But her boyfriend is. I need to find him." He waited while she printed a copy of the claim ticket for him, then put both items back in the pack and zipped it. "What was in the orange juice?"

"Sugar. A tantrum like that takes energy, and she doesn't look like she has much in reserve."

"Don't overdo it. You'll make her sick."

"And you can go teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Been there, done that."

John nodded. Christine _had_ been there. She hadn't been anorexic, but she'd been a heroin addict, and from a nutritional standpoint they were pretty much the same. From Finch's description, she'd starved herself just like Lis had.

"Give me a little time," Christine went on. "I'll get some fatty acids through to her brain. She might smarten up for us."

"I hope so. I don't care what you do with her, just keep her in sight and keep her safe." Reese brought out a credit card, black Amex, with her name on it. "Here. This might help."

"I already have one of those."

"This one is magic. The bills mysteriously disappear." He brought out an earwig for her, too, and showed her how it worked. "Keep this in and your phone on. It will let Finch keep in touch with you."

"Okay."

From the bathroom, there were low screams of frustration as Lis discovered that she could not, in fact, escape through the window.

"Find out all you can about her. Anything that Finch can work with. Especially anywhere Clay might have gone."

"Got it." She left the computer, went to the kitchen and ran cold water over a clean dishcloth. Then she came back and dabbed at Reese's scrape.

"How's it look?"

"You'll live. Hang on."

She went into the bedroom, came back with a tube of antibiotic cream.

"It's okay," Reese demurred.

"Hush." She dabbed the cream over the cut. "It'll blend in in a minute. I don't even want to think about where those nails have been." She tucked the rest of the tube into his inside pocket.

He couldn't disagree. He went and tapped on the bathroom door. "Lis? I need to find Clay. He's in danger."

"Fuck off!" the girl shouted.

Reese shrugged at Christine and let himself out.

He would much rather deal with armed gangsters, he decided, than hysterical teenage girls.

* * *

Aldo Rossi was not happy. He held the ice pack against his face and glared at his men. "Can't believe you let them get away," he growled at Smithy.

The man spread his hands in apology. "I was out front waiting for you … "

"Well next time be out back!"

"I will, Al. I will."

"And you," Rossi said turning to Fuhrman, "how you let that guy get the drop on you like that?"

The man just looked at him. His eyes looked funny; one pupil was bigger than the other one, and he kept throwing up. He hadn't said ten words since they'd picked him up off the floor of the butcher shop.

"I don't know what the shit I pay you guys for," Aldo complained. "I want that kid. And I want his girlfriend. And I want the guy that hit me."

"We'll get him, Al," Smithy promised.

Rossi stared at him. "I don't see you out there getting him!" he finally shouted.

"Oh." Smithy stood up. "Yeah. I'll go find him."

"Take him with you."

Smithy looked at Fuhrman doubtfully. "I dunno, Al. I think he ought to lay down or something …"

Fuhrman lunged into the bathroom again. He didn't shut the door; they could both hear him vomit.

"Or maybe I should take him to the hospital?" Smithy offered.

Rossi glowered at him. "Whatever. Just get him the hell out of here."

Smithy gathered him up and they went out.

As soon as the door shut, Aldo hurried into the bathroom himself. He stood in front of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. "Cut it out, Aldo," he whispered furiously. "You're not a little kid any more. Don't do this."

When he was a child, the sound of vomiting had always made him vomit, too. Even the sound of a cat hacking up a hair ball could make little Aldo lose his lunch. But he wasn't a child any more. And that sound couldn't get to him anymore. Just because Fuhrman had tossed his cookies didn't mean …

Aldo kicked the door shut, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, and threw up.

* * *

Reese lifted the bag of stolen cards and turned it over. The cards fell like a little rainstorm onto the polished wood table.

Finch scowled at him. "Did young Mr. Clay steal all of those?"

"Nope."

"And there's no way to tell which ones he did steal?"

"Nope." Reese added the two intact wallets to the stack. "We know he stole these two. But they're too recent to be causing his problems." He put the flash drive down next to the stack. "This is everything on Clancy's computer."

Finch sighed. Then he opened a drawer and brought out a square card reader. He clicked it onto his cell phone, hit a few keys and scanned the first credit card through it.

"We're just going charge stuff on stolen cards?" Reese asked curiously.

"I've modified the ap," Finch answered. "This will send the information to my computer, where it will be compiled into a sortable list."

"Oh." Reese considered the small mountain of cards with relief. He had not been looking forward to sorting them out. He watched while Finch rapidly scanned more cards. Anything that didn't have a scan strip — social security cards, insurance cards and the like — Harold tossed into a second pile. John noticed the various colors of the drivers' licenses. Evidently out-of-state tourists were the favored prey. "Anything on the girlfriend?"

"I glanced at the files Miss Fitzgerald sent. They appear to be photographs, from around the city. They may give us a lead to where Mr. Clay is hiding." He gestured stiffly with his head toward the computer monitors. "But these," he held up a card "are more likely to help us identify the threat."

Reese went over to the desk and looked through the photos. Some of the locations were easy to recognize – Time Square, Battery Park, Wall Street. Others were more generic. Nothing jumped out at Reese. "Some of these are pretty good," he commented.

"Are they?" Harold answered absently.

"Some. She didn't have a camera in her pack." Reese brought out his copy of the claim ticket and looked at it thoughtfully. He brought out his phone, dialed Christine and put her on speaker.

"Chaos Home for Wayward Girls," she answered cheerfully.

Finch raised one eyebrow but didn't stop his rapid-fire scanning.

"And how is our wayward girl?" Reese asked.

"Still locked in the bathroom."

"Ask her if she wants to talk to me."

There was a little pause. "Hey, Lis. Open the door and talk to John."

"Leave me alone!"

"Uh-huh."

John sighed. "Ask her where I can find Clay."

"He wants to know where to find Clay," Christine repeated.

"Tell him to fuck off!"

"Okay. Did you get that?"

"I got it."

"Perhaps the Home for Wayward Girls needs to start a class for charm and comportment," Finch suggested.

"I'm not even sure I know what comportment is, but we could give it a shot," Christine answered. "I have a question."

"Only one?"

"One with a possible follow-up."

"Go ahead," Finch said carefully.

"Is this what I was like?"

Reese looked up at him. Finch hesitated, a card just at the edge of the reader. "Do you want me to lie?"

"Desperately, but I don't think it will help."

Finch shrugged lightly and swiped the card. "You had a better vocabulary."

"Ahhh."

"Do you wish to exercise your follow-up option?"

"Yes, please. If I was like that why did you put me in the back seat of the car? As opposed to, say, under the tires, which would have been more reasonable?"

Finch smiled, a very small and gentle smile that Reese rarely saw from him. "Obviously because I saw in you something worth saving."

"What was it?"

"That's your third question."

Christine swore, but under her breath and in Russian. "Are you seeing it in _her_?"

"Not the same thing, no. But there's something there. I'm confident that you'll find it."

There was a very long pause. "Right, then," she finally answered. "Should I just leave her in there, or have Zelda open the door for me?"

Reese looked at the claim ticket copy again. "Tell her that if she talks to me, I'll get her camera back for her."

"Hang on." There were footsteps. "Hey, Lis. John says if you come out and talk to him, he'll get your camera back for you."

A second pause, and then the teenager called, "What?"

"Talk to John and eat something, and he'll get your camera back."

"For real?"

"For real."

A door creaked open, and then Lis' soft voice came onto the phone. "It's at a pawn shop."

"I know," Reese answered quietly. "I'll get it. I need to know where to find Clay."

The girl took a little sobbing breath. "I don't know."

"Listen to me. He's in danger. I can help him, but I need to find him."

"I don't _know_," Lis said again. "He said … he said if one of us got caught, the other one should go somewhere we never went together. So they couldn't catch both of us."

"And how were you supposed to get back together?"

"The one who didn't get caught was supposed to find the one who was, when he got out. Like, around the jail or whatever."

Which was probably, John thought, the most unworkable plan in history, but that was about what he was coming to expect from these two. He kept his voice even and patient. "All right. I'm sending a picture to the phone. I need you to tell me if you've ever seen this man before."

He shot her a picture of Aldo Rossi. After a brief pause, Lis said, "No."

"Are you sure? Clay didn't pick his pocket or something?"

"I don't … I don't think so. I mean, sometimes he went out without me, I didn't really see everybody …"

Reese considered for a moment, but he couldn't think of another useful question. "If you think of anything, anything at all that would help me find him, you call me, okay? Christine knows how to reach me."

"Okay."

"And Lis? Get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyhow." Reese hung up the phone and put it away. He looked at Finch, who was a quarter of the way through the stack of cards. "Will you tell _me_ what you saw?"

Finch frowned, then seemed to understand what he was asking. "In Christine? Potential."

"Potential for what?"

"That's always the question with young people, isn't it?" He looked back to the cards with a certain finality.

Reese rolled to his feet. He was tempted — very tempted — to ask what Finch had seen in _him, _what had moved the billionaire to kidnap an ex-operative who was determined to drink himself to death. But he was fairly certain Finch wouldn't answer him. And he was a little afraid that he _would_. "I'm going to go look for the kid," he announced.

Finch nodded absently and continued scanning. "I'll let you know when I find something," he promised.


	6. Chapter 6

"Where's the boy, Clancy?" Smithy demanded.

The butcher shook his head. "I don't know."

Smithy nodded. Torres hit him again. Jo-Jo and Dion watched from the doorway.

"Damn it, Smithy, I don't _know_!" Clancy said. He grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself off the floor. "It's not like I ask for his ID." He chuckled without humor, wiping blood off his mouth. "Not that it would be real anyhow."

"Again," Smithy said.

Torres drew his hand back.

"Wait, wait!" Clancy yelled. "Shit, man. He's a street kid. I don't know where he lives."

"Torres."

"Wait!" He'd been a loss less cooperative the first ten times they'd hit him, but now he was wearing down. "I know where he hangs some time. That's all I know."

"Where?" Smithy demanded.

"You know where St. Herman's used to be?"

Smithy looked at him blankly. "I know," Torres said.

"Up the hill there, under the bridge, there's a squatters camp. He stays there some time. Used to, anyhow. I don't know if he still does."

Smithy considered the butcher for a long moment. His arm hurt. Torres' knuckles were bleeding. "If he shows up here again, you better call me."

"Yeah, yeah."

As they went out the front door, Clancy wiped his mouth again. Then he picked up his cleaver. "They show up here again," he said darkly, "they better bring a lot more men."

The counter girl looked at him. Then she crossed her arms, shook her head, and turned back to her soap operas.

* * *

Every pawn shop in the world. Reese thought, had the same underlying odor. He wasn't entirely sure what it was. Dirty wet carpet. Dust. Desperation. But underneath the local scents, they all smelled the same.

He approached the older man at the back counter. "Help you?" the man asked evenly.

Reese gave him the copy of the pawn ticket. "I need to redeem this."

"Sorry. I can only redeem with the original ticket."

There were a couple ways to shake down a pawn shop owner, Reese knew. He took the simplest one: He opened his wallet and slid a hundred dollar bill across the top of the cracked glass showcase.

The man looked up at him with renewed interest.

Reese added a second bill.

The man picked up the two bills and the claim ticket and disappeared into the back room.

He came back in two minutes with a smallish camera case. He put it on the counter and opened it to reveal mid-priced digital camera that looked almost brand new. There were two lenses with it, and the instruction book. "Seventy-five bucks," he said.

Reese shrugged and put a third hundred dollar bill down. "Keep it," he said. He closed up the camera case. "What can you tell me about the girl?"

Having been bribed adequately, the pawn shop owner didn't try to gouge him for more. He was clearly a professional. "Young, skinny. Scared."

"When did she pawn the camera?"

He had the pawn slip with the copy of the claim ticket. "Two weeks ago tomorrow."

"Say what she needed the money for?"

"No. But her boyfriend was with her, and she handed him the cash right in the store. Might have been for drugs, that's what it usually is, but I don't know. They didn't act like junkies."

"Did she seem afraid of the boyfriend?"

"No." The man rolled his eyes. "They were all kisses and giggles."

And that, Reese thought, was everything he needed here. It was the first thing that had gone right all day. "Thank you," he said warmly. He picked up the camera and left the pawn shop.

* * *

Finch organized his new data base and compared the cards which could not be swiped to the list to be sure he'd included all the names. Then he set to work learning about the people Clay and others had robbed. Aldo Rossi was not among them, of course; that would have been far too simple.

While he worked, Harold kept a link open to Reese, but he focused his attention on the conversation in Christine Fitzgerald's apartment. Lis had been extremely quiet at first, and Christine had simply given her some yogurt and left her alone. From the gentle irregular ticking noises, she was working at her computer. She did not, Finch noted, talk to Zelda, though that was her preferred method of operation. The teenager was cramping her style.

After a time the girl began to speak unprompted. "How come you have such a big computer?"

"It's my business," Christine answered. "I conduct computer security audits for a living."

"Say what?"

"I hack corporate computers and then tell them how to be more secure."

"Oh." And then, "Do you ever play games on it?"

"All the time."

There was a bit of quiet, and then, "You have a kitten!"

"That's Smokey," Christine answered. "John found her in a trash can. You can pick her up if you want."

"So, what? Does he just bring you all his strays?"

"I don't know. This is a fairly recent development."

"He's cute."

"He's a she."

"Not the kitten. John."

"Oh. Yeah. He knows."

"He's kinda scary, though."

"That depends on what side of him you're on."

Lis went quiet again. "Will he really help Cash?"

"Cash?"

"That's what he calls himself now." Lis chuckled a little, sadly. "He said Eddie sounded like a little kid."

"Cash Clay? Seriously?"

"Everybody says that. I don't get why it's funny."

Christine groaned. "No, I don't imagine you do."

Finch touched the phone and said quietly, "See what else she'll tell you about Clay."

There was half a breath of pause. Christine wasn't used to his voice in her ear. But she covered quickly. "How long have you known him?"

"Since fifth grade. Well, I was in fifth grade. He was in seventh."

"They went to grade school together," Finch mused aloud. "That's very helpful." He reached for his own keyboard.

"How'd you meet?" Christine asked. "You want another yogurt?"

"I shouldn't."

"It outdates Sunday. We should eat it."

"Okay." And then, "I started there in the middle of the year. At the middle school. And there was this girl, Cindy. She was the big B, you know? She decided she didn't like me."

"Uh-huh."

"Can she have some?"

Finch squinted up at the speaker.

"Ummm, just let her lick a little off your finger. Any more than that might upset her stomach."

"Okay." There was actual giggling. "It tickles."

"I know. Don't let her near your ears, it tickles like crazy. So what about Cindy?"

"She was picking on me in gym class. We went outside with the boys and ran laps, you know, in the spring? And she kept picking on me, and Eddie came and got right in her face about it. Cash."

"That was nice of him."

"Yeah, except she was one of those early bloomers, you know? She was like six feet tall. And Cash wasn't. She beat the crap out of him."

Christine evidently tried not to laugh, but she didn't succeed.

"And then _he _almost got suspended for starting it. And they didn't do anything to her, just because she was a girl. It wasn't fair."

Finch changed lines. "Mr. Reese?"

"What've you got, Finch?"

"I've got a name. Elisa Hammond. Originally from Elkhart, Indiana. Moved to Oak Ridge, Connecticut several years ago with her family. She went missing three weeks ago, on the night of her sixteenth birthday. The local police originally issued an Amber Alert, but then cancelled it."

"I figured her for a runaway," Reese answered. "She came to New York to be with her boyfriend."

"Her family is somewhere more affluent than Clay's. The parents may have disapproved of the relationship."

"Especially since he's been living on the street for the past two years. They must have kept in touch somehow."

"Judging from Miss Holland's social networking footprint, keeping in touch is not a challenge for her." Finch shook his head. "Friends, photos, trivia … would you like to know her favorite color?"

"Sky blue."

"Impressive, Mr. Reese. Our young lady is a veritable social butterfly. Unfortunately, none of her contacts seem to be in the city. And she hasn't logged in to any of her sites since she left home."

"So she dropped everything," Reese said, "all her friends, her family, everything, to come here and be with Clay? On the street?"

"It looks that way. I'll do some more research."

Reese growled. "At least Christine got her to eat something."

"Fatty acids," Finch agreed. "She's absolutely right about that, you know. A bit of adequate nutrition may enable Miss Holland to think much more clearly."

"We can hope so."

Finch switched back to the other conversation. He'd been half-listening while he talked to Reese; there had been something about dogs and cats and a horse. And a little sister. He double-checked his identification of the girl: Elisa Holland had a sister, Amelia, who was 13.

"I shouldn't have eaten that second one," Lis complained. "I'm stuffed."

"How long have you had an eating disorder?" Christine asked bluntly.

"I don't. I just have to stay thin so I can be a model."

"You're a model?"

"Well, not yet," Lis answered. "But I'm gonna be, once me and Cash get straightened around."

"Oh." Christine kept her tone almost neutral, but Finch could tell it was difficult.

"I don't really want to be a model," Lis continued blithely. "I want to be a photographer. But Cash says it'll be way easier to break in there if I'm a model first. Because I'll know people then, you know?"

"Sure."

"I'm not really sure he's right, though. Because the people I'd know from modeling would be like fashion people, right? And I want to do real photography. Photojournalism. Go to, you know, combat zones and stuff like that. Disasters and stuff."

"Uh-huh."

"Like after 9/11. When I was a little kid, I'd find pictures, in magazines and stuff, and they were amazing, you know? And I would just like, sit and look at them in my room and I would just cry. I want to take pictures that make people cry."

Christine didn't say anything at all then.

Finch could tell that she was in pain, that the teenager had inadvertently invoked some of the hacker's worst memories. "I think she's trying to say that she wants to take pictures that _move_ people," he told her quietly.

"Uh-huh," she responded.

Lis didn't notice. "So anyhow, yeah, I'm going to get into modeling and then make the change when I'm older, like twenty-five or something. You know, too old for modeling. And in the meantime, I really like being skinny, too. I mean, I think I look good like this. I hardly even think about food any more. And then there's that other thing." She giggled awkwardly. "I don't have to worry about periods anymore."

Finch felt his cheeks grow hot. He was glad only Bear was there to see him.

"Right," Christine answered evenly. "That's important, huh?"

"Well, it's, you know, whatever. But Clay really likes it, 'cause it means I can't get pregnant, right? So we don't have to worry about, you know, using anything."

In the brief silence that followed, Finch both desperately wished he had access to the cameras in Christine's apartment, and was devoutly glad that he didn't. Whatever expression the hacker had on her face, it was enough to bring even the chatty teenager up short.

"What?" Lis said. She sounded nervous, even frightened. "You know what I mean, right?"

"Your boyfriend," Christine said, in very precise syllables, "wants you to starve yourself so that he doesn't have to wear a condom?"

"Well that's not the only reason," Lis protested quickly. "Like I said, it's about the modeling and breaking into photography … "

"But mostly it's so he can ride raw."

Lis hesitated. "It's not like that. He's not like that."

There was a second pause. When Christine spoke again, her voice was flat, almost expressionless. "Zelda," she called, "get us a cab. Right away please."

"I'm on it," the computer voice answered.

"Your computer talks!" Lis said, delighted.

"Yeah." Christine's voice remained flat. "Put the cat down. Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going for a ride, and we're going to have a talk. A long and excruciatingly detailed talk that someone like your mother should have had with you years ago. And _you_ do not need to hear it."

This last sentence, Finch gathered, was directed at him and possibly Reese, because as soon as she said it, Christine's phone went dead.

He listened to the silence for a moment. "Mr. Reese?" he asked quietly.

"I heard her," Reese confirmed. His voice was also hushed. He sounded a bit shaken. "I think … we might be just as glad … "

"That we're not listening to the rest of this conversation?" Finch supplied. "I think I agree."

"I, uh … let me know if you hear from them."

"I will." Finch paused. "Mr. Reese? I think it might be wise if you …"

"Found Clay before Christine does?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

The homeless camp was easy enough to find.

There a black Lincoln SUV parked illegally at the curb at the bottom of the hill. Reese drove past it and found a less conspicuous parking spot. He left his suit coat in the car and slipped on a windbreaker from the trunk. He didn't look casual or remotely destitute, but it was a step in the right direction. He circled widely and slipped up the hill behind the camp.

The little camp was not well-organized; there were make-shift tents and lean-tos in an irregular pattern tucked under the shelter of the overpass. Reese saw at least two burn barrels and a fire pit, all too close to the tents. There was trash all around the perimeter and even inside the camp: Food wrappers, beer cans, whiskey bottles. It smelled, too, of rotted food and human waste. A well-run camp would have addressed most of those issues …

He shook his head. Not every camp was lucky enough to have a Joan to keep things in order.

While he watched, Aldo Rossi and three of his men strode through the little camp like they owned it. The man Reese had leveled in the butcher shop wasn't there, but the others were cut from the same cloth. Fit, strong, well-armed. They pulled back blankets and tarps and looked into every tent. The residents protested, but quietly; Aldo's guys all had their handguns out.

The mobsters were bunched up. Nervous. Reese probably could have taken all of them, but there were too many guns and innocent bystanders. John paused behind some scrubby trees and waited. He surveyed the ground. If they found Clay here, he wasn't going to let them leave with him.

The camp residents started to gather. They were all young, mid-twenties and younger, and not particularly hearty-looking. They weren't going to take on the men with the guns. But they were watching, angry. Muttering.

The mobsters bunched up even more. Reese could tell they weren't aware of what they were doing, or that their behavior emboldened the gathering crowd.

He watched the homeless people, waiting for a leader to emerge. It didn't take long. A tall boy with blond hair in a green coat moved to the front of the pack. The others looked to him. He stood his ground, not moving on Rossi or challenging him, but not backing down when the young mobster approached. They spoke, very briefly.

Edward Clay evidently wasn't there.

Rossi and his men threw a few things and kicked over a fire barrel just for fun, but they left without harming anyone and without finding the boy.

Reese waited and watched. Ten minutes after the mobsters left, the young leader walked out of the camp. Reese trotted back down to the street and stepped in front of him. "Hey. Talk to you a minute?"

The young man looked him up and down. Reese could see the assessment in his eyes, and the decision: He was going to run. A good choice, actually, but Reese grabbed his arm. Up close, the boy reeked of marijuana. "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want any trouble. I'm looking for someone. A boy. The same boy those guys with the guns were looking for."

The young man looked at his face, then down at his hand, then back to his face. Then without warning he tucked his lower lip under his top teeth and whistled very loudly.

Reese glanced up the hill. A handful of other young men were hurrying down from the camp the help their unofficial leader. A second wave followed them.

He released the boy's arm and took a step back as the others surrounded him. "All right," he asked evenly, "what's the percentage?"

"The what?"

"I know that you're upset because Rossi and his goons stomped through your camp. And you couldn't do anything to stop him because of the guns. But I'm not waving a gun around, so you think you can take out your frustrations on me. I get that. But it's not going to happen. So what percentage of your guys do I have to drop before you settle down?"

The blond grinned. "You're pretty cocky, old man."

Reese sighed and waited. The leader poked at him half-heartedly. John blocked easily and went on waiting.

The man behind him, the biggest in the group, jumped toward his back. Reese ducked and moved to the side, and the man fell past him to the ground. The next attack came from his right. John shot his arm out in a straight punch and the man dropped.

Two more, slightly behind to his left. Reese threw an elbow at the first, grabbed him before he could fall, and slung him around against the second.

The first attacker staggered up, but backed away. The others stayed on the ground. The loose circle of the blond's companions became looser.

"So," Reese said, counting, "twenty-five percent, then?"

The young leader shook his head. "Make it worth my while?"

"Too late for that. Edward Clay."

The boy shook his head. "Don't know him."

"Cash. He calls himself Cash."

"That little asshole. Yeah, we know him."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

The boy considered. "Two, three weeks."

"When the girl showed up," the bigger guy offered.

"Lis?"

"Lis, yeah," the leader answered. "He was okay before that. But once she showed up he got all weird. Protective, you know?"

"You hit on her?"

The young man grinned. ""Hell, we all hit on her. Fresh meat, gotta take a shot, right? All she had to do was say no. But she got all prissy about it. Offended, you know? Like she was way too good for any of us."

"Uh-huh."

"I was just askin'. She didn't have to get all hysterical. But she started crying, and then Cash got all up in my face. It was a bad scene. So they moved out. Haven't seen 'em since."

"Where would he go?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"You know everything that goes on at the camp. You know where else he would go."

The kid looked at him. Looked up the hill. Looked around at his guys. "Sometimes he'd get a room, when he had a little cash. The Savoy."

"Or the Rex," the big guy offered.

Reese nodded. He already had those locations from Robinson. "Anywhere else?"

"Nah. That's all I know."

"Thank you."

Reese walked back to his car. Behind him, the group grumbled, then went back to their camp. John opened the trunk and replaced the windbreaker with his suit coat. When he closed the trunk, one of the girls from the camp was standing next to the car.

"Hello," Reese said.

"You lookin' for Cash?"

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"Will you make it worth _my_ while?"

She was probably in her early twenties, but her face already had the marks of a hard drinker. "If I give you money, will you promise to get something to eat?"

"Sure, whatever."

Reese fished a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet, held it folded between his fingers.

The woman smirked. "Seriously?"

Reese pulled out one more.

"You know St. Augustine's?"

"I know it."

"Building across the street's vacant. There's a camp in the basement. You get in from the alley. Under the plywood. It's pretty hidden. Not many people. Little Miss Suburbs would have felt safe there."

Reese let the girl take the money.


	7. Chapter 7

Finch turned back to his keyboard. Elisa Holland. There was so much information about her online. An appalling amount of information. Perhaps when Christine was done covering human reproduction and safe sex, she could have a word with the girl about basic privacy settings.

Maybe, Finch amended mentally, that conversation could wait for another day.

He went over Elisa's various posts, and then explored the much more conservative postings of her parents. Finally he turned to her younger sister. Amelia used social media widely as well, but she was a good deal more reserved than her older sister. Her last post was a video, and it was titled 'For Elisa, wherever you are'. He hesitated, than clicked through.

The video was clearly made with a webcam, and it was simple, just a young girl looking directly at her computer. She resembled Elisa sister, but she was normal weight rather than skeletal, and she was obviously younger.

"Hey, Lis," the girl in the video said, "I think I know where you are and I promise I won't tell Mom and Dad. But nobody's heard from you since you left and I'm really scared for you. If you could just call me, or call one of your friends and have them call me or shoot me a text of whatever. Just find some way to let me know you're okay?" The girl hesitated, looked around. "It really sucks around here without you. Mom cries all the time, and Dad never talks at all. He just has that look he gets, you know the one, the skinny eyes look." She demonstrated. "I mean, I know you want to be with _him_, and it sucks that Mom and Dad won't let you date him, but … I miss you so much. I just … nothing's the same, Lis. Nothing's any fun. Maybe if you just talked to them one more time, you know, now that they know you're serious, maybe they'd change their minds? I really wish you'd come home. I worry about you all the time. And Mom and Dad do, too. Look, I know you want to be with him. I get that. But please could you just find some way to let me know you're okay? Please? I am so scared, Lis. I'm scared I'll never see you again. Just … please?"

The video ended. Finch sat back, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He bookmarked the video; it might be useful later. He checked Christine's phone, but it was still off. He thought about trying to track her camera-to-camera, then discarded the idea. It would be time-consuming, and his attention was better spent in other areas. Elisa Holland was probably unhappy with Christine right now, but she was almost certainly safe.

He turned back to the list of credit card victims.

* * *

"Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"I've checked both of the hotels. They haven't seen Clay lately."

"Miss Holland did say they planned not to return to any place they'd been to together."

"True," Reese answered. "But I don't know if I believe he's bright enough to actually stick to that plan. Any word from the girls?"

"No. But Miss Fitzgerald did use her new credit card at the Pemberly Women's Clinic. That was half an hour ago. If they went straight home, they should be there soon."

"Bets on whether Christine turns her phone back on?"

Finch sighed. "I'm not entirely sure I want her to."

"I hear that."

Five minutes later, the feed came back on. They both heard Lis shout, "I hate you!" Then a door slammed.

"Okay," Christine answered calmly. There was a bit of filler noise, and then she said, "Zelda, unlock the bathroom door."

Lis shouted, "What are you doing? Leave me alone!"

"Yeah, yeah. While you're locked in here, take a shower. Here's pajamas. You can sleep in the spare room across the hall. You can lock that door, too, and I can unlock it any time I want to. Clear?"

"Fuck you!"

"Uh-huh." The door closed again, softly this time.

"Well?" Finch asked.

"Well what?" Christine answered.

"Do we still have one problem child, or do we actually have two?"

"Oh." She made a dismissive little noise. "To paraphrase the song, we got ninety-nine problems, but a baby ain't one. I could have told you that the minute I saw her. The idiot boy is right; she doesn't have enough body fat to get pregnant."

"That's good, I suppose."

"But anybody with a pulse can incubate an STD."

"And is she doing so?"

"Remarkably, no. Well, not that we know of yet. The blood tests will take a few days. And of course there's the six-month HIV incubation period. Which she is totally flipping out about."

"And appropriately so."

"Is Mr. Reese with us?"

"I'm here," John assured her.

"I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything."

"When you catch up with the idiot boy, I need you to punch him in the kidneys for me."

Reese smiled briefly. "Just once?"

"Until your arms get tired. And then ask for volunteers from the crowd."

"Yes, ma'am."

Finch cleared his throat. "I'm not defending the young man's behavior, but it is possible that he's as badly misinformed about these matters as Miss Holland is."

"_Was_," Christine corrected firmly. "Believe me, Miss Holland is now _fully_ informed. And there is no excuse for that level of ignorance in the age of Wikipedia."

"You're suggesting that they get their information from a site entirely generated by crowd-sourcing?"

"Don't be a snob," she answered. "The Wiki entries on safe sex and contraception are both comprehensive and accurate."

"If you say so." Finch was clearly unconvinced.

"Is there any chance," Reese ventured, "that if I came over there she'd be in the mood to talk to me?"

"Maybe. She hates me, so she'd probably be happy to see you."

"I'll be along shortly. Try not to drown her before I get there."

"No promises." Her single-cup coffee maker sounded in the background. "Hey, Random?"

"Yes?" Finch answered.

"I don't suppose you want to tell me this is all some elaborately-staged object lesson."

"I would love to. But it's not."

"Pity."

"Besides, you've already learned every lesson this scenario has to offer, haven't you?"

"I suppose." She sighed. "What are we going to do with this kid? She's not smart enough to survive on the streets."

"We'll figure something out," Finch promised.

"One problem at a time," Reese added.

"Trust us," his partner added.

"Okay," Christine said. From her tone, she was utterly unconvinced.

* * *

Carter had her coat on when Fusco got back to his desk. "You headin' out?" he asked.

"It is quitting time," she answered, "and I am actually leaving."

"You won't make it to the door," Fusco predicted.

"Watch me."

He watched her. She was ten steps from the door when her cell phone rang. She whipped around and glared at him, but Fusco held his hands up innocently. "Not me, Carter."

She scowled deeply and answered the phone. She didn't say much, and the call didn't last long. Then she put her phone away and came back to the desk.

"Pull a new case?" Fusco asked.

Carter shook her head. "That was the hospital. Your girl called it. Mrs. Antonucci just died."

Fusco sighed. "Probably for the best."

"Yeah." Carter thought for a minute. "I should probably call Donnelly, let him know."

"Better you than me. I'll call Chri — Scottie." He reached for his phone, then hesitated. Carter sat down behind her desk again. They looked at each other.

"We knew this was how it would happen," Carter said.

"Yeah," Fusco agreed. "How come it feels this bad, then?"

"She was a good woman. You know, for a murderer."

"I guess." Fusco reached for his phone a second time, then stopped a second time. "You think they're together now?"

Carter nodded. "I'm sure of it."

"Then I guess it's not so bad."

His partner came up with a sad little smile, and so did Fusco. They both made their phone calls.

* * *

Christine let Reese into the apartment, then left them alone.

Elisa Holland was curled up in the corner of the couch, watching television. She wore a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt that were much too big for her. But she was eating from one of those microwave cups of macaroni and cheese, and there was a half-empty glass of milk beside her. Smokey was sitting on her lap.

Reese shut off the TV and sat down at the far end of the couch. Lis glared at him. The kitten immediately climbed off the girl and came to sit on him. He stroked the little creature gently; her fur was very sleek. She was four or five times bigger than she'd been when Bear found her.

He put the camera case on the couch between them. After a minute, the girl reached out and took it. ""I thought you were just … thank you."

"You're welcome," he answered. "I need to know where to find Clay."

"I told you, I don't know."

"Did he talk about any places he went before you came to the city?"

She shook her head.

Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "All right. How did you get here?"

"To the city? I took a bus."

"Clay met you at the bus station?"

She nodded.

"How did he know you were coming?"

"I, um … I posted it to my Facebook. In code. He called my cell and I told him when I was coming."

"Do you still have your cell phone?"

She shook her head. "We pawned it. When I first got here."

"He took you to the camp under the bridge and things got a little rough. Then what?"

"We went to this … hotel." She shuddered delicately. "It was gross. But I could take a shower and stuff. And there was a bed." She stopped dead and her cheeks turned red. "But we only stayed there for one night. Then we went to another camp."

"You couldn't afford to stay at the hotel?"

She shook her head. Then she reconsidered. "We'd stay one night every three or four days. The rest of the time we went to other places."

"What other places?"

"Just anywhere we could sleep."

"What about the place across from St. Augustine?"

She hesitated; her eyes dropped away. "Sometimes."

_And that_, Reese thought, _is where I'm going next_. It was the best lead the girl had given him. "Clay supported the two of you by picking pockets?"

Lis nodded.

"Ask her where the rest of the money went," Finch prompted in his ear.

"Where did the rest of the money go?" Reese asked.

"What?"

Christine came out of the bedroom but stayed by the door, quiet. She'd changed into her own sleep clothes; the t-shirt and sweats she wore actually fit her. Lis didn't notice her.

"You're not using drugs, not drinking. You don't eat much. Clay was stealing tourists' wallets and selling the credit cards. But you pawned your phone and your camera, and you still didn't have enough to stay in a dive hotel. Where did the money go?"

Lis looked at her macaroni as if it were suddenly fascinating. Or disgusting. Then she put it down. "I don't know."

"Lis."

"I don't _know_," she insisted. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm really tired."

John looked to Christine. She shrugged. He wasn't going to get any more out of the girl. Christine might, later. Maybe. "I made up the daybed," she said.

Lis looked over at her. "Okay."

She didn't really want to go to bed, John knew. She just wanted to get away from him. The money question had her upset, scared. Maybe Clay had a gambling problem they hadn't uncovered, or some other vice. But whatever it was, the teenager wasn't going to give it up without a lot more pressure than he was willing to apply right now. "All right. I'm going. Call me if you think of anything else. It's important that I find him as soon as possible."

She nodded, but she still wouldn't look at him.

"Christine," Finch said to both of them as Reese made his way to the door, "offer the girl a laptop. Let's see if her e-mails will take us anywhere."

"Hmmm," she agreed under her breath.

Reese went down to his car — _her_ car — and listened as he drove. Christine made the offer sound casual. Lis hesitated; obviously Clay had told her to stay off the internet. But the lure was too strong. In about ten minutes she changed her mind.

Christine let the girl take the laptop to the spare bedroom. It gave the teenager an illusion of privacy.

Finch, of course, followed her every keystroke.

It wasn't really fair, Reese thought. But she was safe, clean, fed. There were a lot of unfair things that happened to pretty young girls on the streets, and Elisa Holland had been spared almost all of them. A little electronic eavesdropping wasn't going to hurt her. And it might help her boyfriend a great deal.


	8. Chapter 8

**2001**

Fusco wasn't sure how he'd ended up riding with Simmons. His regular partner was out with the 'flu', which Fusco knew was code for 'too hung over to come to work' or possibly 'still drunk'. He didn't like Simmons, but he was smart enough to fake it. It was only for one day. Probably. He just needed to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But then he heard the call over the radio. Drug activity and stolen property, lots of arrests, they needed a bus. Nothing unusual, except that Fusco recognized the address. It was one of the places _she_ hung out. He screwed his mouth up, listening to the calls. Fourth time she'd gotten in trouble since Christmas, and every time he saw her she looked worse. If he let her go to jail, maybe some judge would sentence her to rehab.

And maybe not. He shook his head and carefully looked to his temporary partner. "Hey. You mind if we roll on that one?"

Simmons scowled at him. "Junkies? Why?"

"Just … call it a favor, okay? Not like we're doing anything here anyhow."

"Yeah, that was kind of the point, Fusco. I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet."

"Sorry about that."

Simmons thought about it. "You serious?"

"Yeah. Please."

"Whatever you say. But you owe me one."

"Sure, sure."

"No, seriously, Fusco. We do this, you owe me one."

The guy had creepy eyes. Fusco looked out the window. "Yeah. I got it."

They went to the crime scene.

* * *

Chrissy Buchannan was already in handcuffs when he got there. She was skinnier than ever and dead white. Her eyes were vague, unfocused. She was much too calm; she didn't care that she was under arrest. She looked like she didn't even _know_ she was under arrest. She sat on the bench where they'd put her and swayed softly, side to side, front to back. Sometimes in circles. Sometimes she changed directions, as if she was unwinding.

She looked like she was trying to rock herself to sleep.

The uniform who was standing over her wasn't anyone he knew, so Fusco had to do things the hard way. "Hey," he asked casually, "what'd you pinch her for?"

"She was using the computers they stole."

"She didn't steal them?"

"I dunno."

Fusco looked around. No one was in earshot. "You know she's a minor, right?"

The cop looked at her, shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

"You call Family Services?"

"No, not yet. She didn't have any ID."

"You searched her?"

"Patted her down, yeah." The cop looked suddenly concerned. "Why?"

Fusco took his arm and pulled him a little aside. "I know this kid. She's a street rat, but her dad is some big ass Wall Street lawyer."

"Aw, shit."

"Look, she's pretty stoned," Fusco continued. "Let me take her. I'll drop her off down the street from her house. She probably won't even remember this."

"Shit," the other cop said again.

"Hey, how would you know? I mean, look at her."

"So how do _you_ know?"

"'Cause I got my ass caught in that crack once. Never again. Trust me, just let me take her home. You got enough paperwork to do here anyhow."

"Yeah," the cop agreed quickly. "Yeah, go ahead. Thanks."

"Sure."

Fusco moved before anyone else paid any attention. "Chrissy," he said, taking her arm. "C'mon, kid, we're gonna take you home. Come on. Up."

Chrissy stood up. Her eyes focused on him, and she gave him a big bright smile that about broke his heart. "Hey. Hey."

"Fusco," he prompted.

"I know, silly."

He kept her arm and walked her very quickly around the corner, out of sight of the other cops. She was wearing long sleeves, even though it was mid-summer and Fusco was sweating in his short-sleeved uniform shirt. She needed to cover track marks. All he could feel under his hand was shirt and bone; it was like she didn't have any meat on her at all.

"Jesus Christ, Chrissy, when was the last time you ate anything?" He paused to take the handcuffs off.

"Hey, Fusco," she said vaguely, as if he'd just arrived.

He looked around. There was a McDonald's just across the street. It was a little risky; someone from the department might see them. But she needed it. Now. He led her into the restaurant.

"What do you want to eat?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry," Chrissy answered. "Not right now. But you could give me the money and I'll get a burger later."

"If I give you money you'll buy more drugs later."

She smiled brightly. "Yeah, I will."

He put her in a booth in the back corner, away from the windows. "Stay there," he said.

She nodded obediently. And then she tried to stand up.

Fusco pushed her down again. "Chrissy. Stay there."

"Oh. Okay."

He went to the counter, stood back a little so he could keep one eye on her. She started to sway again, but she stayed in the booth. Fusco got a big coffee for himself, three cream, three sugar, and the biggest chocolate milkshake they had. He also got four of their little boxes of animal crackers.

When he got back to the table, Chrissy looked up at him with a little more focus. "Can we go outside?" she asked. "I don't like it in here."

The lights, Fusco realized. The fluorescent lights were too bright for her. The girl was falling apart. He nodded grimly and followed her back outside. She sat on a bench. Then she dug into her backpack and got her sunglasses.

Fusco sat down next to her and gave her the milkshake. "Drink this."

She took a little sip. "Thank you," she said formally.

"Drink more." He didn't think she'd drink it all, and if she did she'd probably just puke it up. But he wanted to get at least a few calories in her. She looked like one of those refugees on late-night TV ads.

He put the animal crackers in her backpack. He was very careful not to notice her fix kit, which was pretty much the only thing in there now, besides her beat-up laptop and a couple books.

"How come you were stealing computers?" Fusco asked.

"So we could hack stuff."

"Right. Of course."

People walked by and looked at them. A cop in uniform and a street rat. Some of them smiled. They figured he was being nice. And he was, actually. But it was time to get past that.

"Look, Chrissy," he said, "you look like shit. You gotta get some help."

She gestured with the cup in her hand. "This helps."

"That's not what I mean."

The girl was quiet for a minute. She started to sway again. "It wasn't your fault."

He knew exactly what she was talking about. "I know. It wasn't your fault, either."

"Why do you keep coming to get me?"

"You got somebody else looking out for you?" Fusco asked.

"I got friends," Chrissy answered vaguely.

Fusco eyed her long sleeves. "Yeah. Sure you do."

"I do."

"Come in with me. Let me find somebody to get you some help."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

She swayed faster. "Not ready. Not ready."

_You get any more ready, kid, you're going to be dead._ He didn't know what to say that would get through to her. She reminded him of her father more every time he saw her. The eyes. It was definitely the eyes. She was disconnected from the whole world. And she didn't have any interest in getting herself re-connected.

"I keep thinking about it," Fusco said. "About your dad, and how he died. He really thought he was helping you."

She stopped swaying and stared at him.

"I'm not saying he was right," Fusco went on quickly, "but he thought he was. He thought he was getting out of your way. That you could have a better life if you didn't have to take care of him."

Chrissy closed her eyes. The swaying started up again, much faster and in bigger circles.

"I know he was crazy. But he cared about you, best as he could. And he sure as hell didn't mean for you to end up like _this_, kid."

Her eyes snapped open — and there was no one inside. It was like looking down the barrel of an empty gun. Like she'd simply checked out. Gone away. Lights on, nobody home.

It was like something out of a horror movie. This skinny little girl was still breathing, still had a pulse, but she was dead inside. Hollow. Like a zombie.

Fusco didn't know to do. Call an ambulance? It was going to be a bitch to explain, but whatever. He couldn't very leave her like this. He grabbed her hand. "Chrissy. Chrissy!" He squeezed and felt the bones of her hand grind together. He eased up. It must have hurt, but she didn't seem to notice.

And then a shadow blocked the sun. "Wondered where the hell you got to, Fusco."

Fusco squinted up at Simmons. That was the _last_ thing he needed right now. "Give me a minute, huh?"

"Who's your friend?"

_Stay the fuck away from her_, Fusco thought furiously. _Don't even fucking look at her. I swear to God I'll take you apart if you look at her …_ He wasn't sure how he was going to do that, exactly; Simmons was about twice his size and mean as hell. But Chrissy was checked out, helpless and Simmons was dangerous, and somehow he had to …

Simmons was dangerous. Chrissy had been living on the street long enough to know that. And however wasted and in pain she was, her survival instinct was stronger than ever. His threatening presence brought her back to awareness in a way that Fusco's kindness couldn't. She stopped swaying. He could feel her gather herself up. _First rule of the jungle,_ Fusco thought. _You can show your belly to your pack mates, but you better show a predator your fangs. _

Chrissy stood up. "Hey," she said. She looked up at Simmons, tipped her head, smiled. "You're kinda cute."

Simmons looked her up and down like she was meat with feet. "Jesus, Fusco. Where'd you find this thing?"

"Oh, fuck you," Chrissy snapped. She picked up her backpack, gave Fusco a little nod, took her milkshake and walked away.

For a girl with no discernable hips, she worked the hell out of the walk.

"Who _was_ that?" Simmons demanded.

"Just some street kid," Fusco answered. Instinctively he wanted to hide her from the big guy.

"Sure. Sure." Simmons jerked his head back toward the crime scene. "We gotta go. Got a call."

"Yeah. Coming." Fusco dropped his coffee, still mostly full, into the trash.

"And don't forget, Fusco," Simmons added darkly, "you owe me one."

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"Oh, I'm sure something will come up." Simmons grinned like a crocodile. "I'll let you know."

* * *

**2012**

Evidently Reese was in the right place to look for Clay, because two of Aldo Rossi's goons were already staking out the place. He was already tired of following them around. He found a place where he could see them and the entrance both and settled in for a long cold night of keeping watch.

Time drifted. It was not really dark; this part of the city never got dark unless the power went out. But John could feel the sleep creeping into the city. The frenzy of the evening began to surrender oh-so-slowly to stillness. The street went quiet.

John liked the city at night best of all.

A car door closed to his right. There were footsteps. They were quiet, but whoever was coming wasn't trying to be silent. Reese thought it might be Finch, but the pace was too even. He turned his head and watched William Robinson approach.

The black man crouched beside him. "I saw your car, thought you might be here," he said softly. "I brought you a blanket and some soup."

"I'm okay …"

"Will your pride keep you warm all night?"

_It has before_, John thought. He looked toward the car where the mobsters were waiting. They seemed to be asleep. He shrugged, took the blanket and tucked it down beside him for the moment. Robinson held the styrofoam contain of soup out to him but Reese shook his head. "I've eaten today. Someone else needs it more."

"Soup kitchen's closed for the night. You don't take it, it's goin' in the trash."

"You're very persistent, aren't you?"

"I am, yes, sir."

John took the soup. "Thank you."

Robinson handed him a plastic spoon. "Mind if I sit a while?"

"I'd appreciate the company."

The man settled beside him with his back against the wall. "No sign of the boy?"

"Not yet. We found the girlfriend, though. She's safe."

"That's good to hear."

Reese spooned up some of the soup. It was cream of potato, rather bland, but warm and filling. Until he took the first bite, he hadn't realized he was hungry.

Robinson sat in silence until he finished eating. He seemed very relaxed in his silence. John appreciated that. He would have tried to most people send away, but what he'd told this man was true. He did appreciate his company. William, though he barely knew him, was one of the few people with whom Reese did not feel alone.

Perhaps it was only the kindness and the darkness and the soup.

Reese looked toward the quiet entrance to the homeless camp again. In some ways it had been horrible, living on the street. In some other ways it had been the best time of his life. He'd been completely free, with no responsibility to anyone. No goal but to eat and to drink and stay warm. Mostly to drink. Nothing else.

_You need a purpose_, Finch had said. Until then, Reese hadn't had one. Or wanted one.

"How did you get here?" he asked William quietly.

The man stirred beside him. "You mean how did an ex-con end up serving soup?"

Reese nodded.

"I met a powerful witness."

John turned his head to look at the man.

"When I went to prison, I had a cellmate. Bobby. He was simple." Robinson paused. "I suppose we don't call them that any more, but my mama would have said he was simple, anyhow. He wasn't mentally ill, he was just slow. You know? Not bright. But he was a man of God. Grew up in the church, believed with all his soul. A good man."

"Why was he in prison?"

"Bobby worked nights as a maintenance man in a factory. One night he got sick, had the runs, he said, so they sent him home. When he got home he found his pretty little wife in bed with the neighbor. Never forgot how he said it. He said 'William, I knew it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I carried the church in my heart. I had the Word right there in me, and it told me turn the other cheek. But I stepped out of the church. I chose to step out of the church. I chose to sin.' He beat the man to death with his hammer."

John waited.

"And then, he said," William continued, "he turned around and his three little children were standing in the door, looking at him. Afraid of him. He said that was his punishment, for the rest of his life. That his own little children were afraid of him.

"Should have been just a waste of his life, you see? But it wasn't. Because what Bobby told me after, it changed me. He told me that he knew he'd sinned, that he'd done wrong. But he knew that God would forgive him, and when he was done on this Earth he'd go home to his Father. And when his sweet little children came to Heaven they'd know him there, and they'd forgive him and not be afraid of him. And he'd be able to take them in his arms again and everything would be right. He lived for that. That forgiveness.

"And him telling me his story, that changed me. Not all at once. It took some time. I got a Bible and read it with him. I told you, Bobby was simple, he could hardly read, but he knew his Bible. Knew almost every verse. Understood it, too, you know? He could explain it to me, so I could understand it. Although when you come down to it, it's really pretty simple."

"It is?"

"Sure it is. Two commandments. Just two. Matthew 22. 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind'. And 'love your neighbor as yourself'. All those words and it just comes down to that. Simple." He shrugged. "So that's what I try to do."

"Simple," Reese repeated softly.

"From what I can see, that's what you're trying to do, too."

John shook his head. "It's not nearly that simple for me."

His companion was silent for a moment. "You mind my sayin'?" he finally asked.

"Go ahead. Please."

"If it's not simple, maybe it's because you're making it complicated. Because you're getting in your own way."

"I don't understand."

Robinson hesitated. "You strike me as a man who's known some darkness. Walked in sin."

_You have no idea_, John thought bitterly.

"And it seems like now you might be working to redeem yourself. Trying to make amends."

_Maybe you have some idea_, Reese corrected.

"Thing is, God doesn't make you earn redemption. All you have to do is ask for it." William gave him a little smile. "You can't forgive yourself. Whatever it is you did, you can't let it go. Not yet. You need to make amends. I get that. But when you _can_ get past it, John, when you can forgive yourself, I'll tell you here and now, you're going to find that God forgave you a long time ago."

Reese put his head back against the wall. The cold soothed him. It had been a long time since he'd been to church. A very long time. But sitting next to William Robinson in the dark was like listening to the finest, most personal sermon he'd ever heard. They stirred his heart, touched him. It hurt, in a way. He wanted to grab onto the man's words. But he couldn't. Not yet. William was right. He was still making amends. He probably would be for the rest of his life.

"I'm sorry," William said. "I only meant to bring you some soup, not talk your ear off."

"No," John said. "I appreciate your words. Really."

"Not quite ready to hear them yet, though."

"No. Not quite. But … I'll keep them with me."

"Hope they help you some day."

"I'm sure they will."

William stood up. "You need anything, John, you let me know, okay?"

"I will."

"Leave the blanket when you're done here." He gestured toward the entrance to the camp. "They'll find it."

John nodded. "Thank you, William."

"Hope you find the boy. I'll pray for you both."

Reese watched him back to his car. He unfolded the blanket and covered his legs. It took the edge off the night chill. He pulled William's words close around him, too. Robinson was right; he wasn't ready to hear them yet. But he held on to them. They held back the darkness in his soul, like the blanket held back the cold of the night. The darkness and the cold were still there, but they gave Reese a little protection. A little cover.

By habit, he touched his earpiece as he settled back. He didn't speak, and neither did Finch. There was only the soft tap of keys and the occasional clink of china.

The sound, the connection, was a source of cover, too.

* * *

Aldo Rossi's phone rang. He put the pillow over his head and ignored it.

The phone kept ringing.

Rossi's wife rolled over, elbowed him, then pulled the pillow away from him. "Answer the phone, dumb ass."

Rossi groaned, but he groped for the phone. "'lo?"

"Little Aldo? That you?"

Aldo blinked up at his ceiling. "Uncle T?"

"You get him yet?"

"Who?"

"That asshole kid. Who you think?"

"Oh. Yeah. I got all my guys out looking for him, Uncle T."

"You sleepin', Aldo?"

"No, no. I was just, uh, I was getting a little snack before I head back out."

"You got to find this kid, Aldo. My lady is not happy. And you know how that is."

"I know, Uncle T." Beside him, Rossi's wife growled. She rolled over, pulling all the covers with her. "We'll find him. Don't worry. "

"You better. And you better be quick about it."

"Uh-huh." The phone went dead.

"Who was that?" his wife muttered.

"My uncle. He wants to know if we found that kid."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Then you better get movin'."

Aldo tugged at the blankets. His wife grunted and rolled even tighter in them. "Go, Al."

Rossi swore under his breath and climbed out of bed. On his way to the bathroom, he started calling his men. "Smithy. Al. You find the kid yet? Well, why the hell not?"


	9. Chapter 9

The scream ripped through the dark silence.

Finch sat straight up at his desk. Pain stabbed violently at his neck. He froze, his mouth open, gasping for breath. He heard Bear's nails scramble on the wood floor, and then the dog was at his knee.

A second scream sounded.

"Finch?" Reese said urgently.

"I've got her," Christine answered swiftly. And then, "Lis! Lis, wake up! Come on, wake up. You're okay. Wake up."

Finch sat back slowly, adjusted his glasses, rubbed his neck. He listened while Christine comforted the teenager. The panic drained from his body; the pain in his neck lessened as he relaxed. He reached down and patted Bear's head reassuringly.

"You're alright," Christine murmured on the com, over and over. "Come on. Come with me."

Elisa Holland simply sobbed.

"Finch?" Reese said again, more quietly.

"I'm here," Finch answered, to Reese and to Christine. "I'm here."

There was running water, more comforting murmurs. The teenager's sobs quieted. "I'm sorry," she said, then hiccupped. "I'm sorry."

"You had a nightmare," Christine told her. "You're okay now. Shh. Shh. Here. Blow your nose."

The girl sniffed, then blew. "My mom used to do that. Wash my face with a cool washcloth when I had a nightmare."

"It wakes you up all the way," Christine answered. "Keeps the dream from coming back."

Lis began to cry again. "I miss my mom. I miss my mom."

"Then go home."

"I can't," Lis wailed. "I can't!"

There was more crying, more wordless murmurs of comfort. Finch stood up and walked around his desk slowly, stretching his legs and back. Bear watched him for a moment, then went back to his bed and relaxed. Harold continue to pace. He hated it when he fell asleep at his desk; he always woke up in agony. And he did it far too often. He moved slowly, easing the muscles, relaxing the old wounds as well as he could.

And listening to the child weep.

He knew John was there, too, somewhere in the darkness, listening with him.

Finally Christine spoke again. "Alright, Lis. Listen to me. Listen. Is someone at home hurting you?"

"What? No."

"Then go home. You are not going to survive out there. _Go home_."

"You don't understand …"

"I do understand. I lived out here, and I almost died out there. You will not make it. If you want to live, you have to go home."

"I can't. I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because Eddie needs me!"

"Eddie's not going to make it out there, either, Lis."

"You don't understand."

Christine exhaled audibly. "Then explain it to me."

"I … I can't. But Eddie — Cash needs me. If I go home he'll be all alone again. He needs me. He loves me."

"If he loved you, he would not put your life at risk."

"He didn't!"

"He did," Christine answered, "and he did it more than once. If he loved you, he would have made you stay home where you were safe. And he'd be getting some kid of education and some kind of job, instead of robbing tourists and having you live under a bridge with him."

"Haven't you ever loved anybody?"

"Part of loving someone is taking care of them. Doing whatever you have to do to protect them. Giving up what you want to be sure they have what they need."

"But I have to take care of Cash. Don't you get it? He's all alone."

"Lis … "

"I love him," the girl said stubbornly. "And doesn't that mean_ I_ should give up what_ I_ want to be sure he has what _he_ needs?"

Finch stopped pacing, looked up. "The child actually makes a reasonable argument."

"It would be a reasonable argument," Christine countered, to both of them, "if you were twenty-six. If you had some idea where you were going and what you were giving up. But you're sixteen. And from what I've seen you do not have a clue. You don't. And neither does Clay."

"He knows. He's doing what he has to do."

"If you stay out there, both of you, then whatever you were going to be, whatever you were going to do with your life, it's gone. You are all you will ever be, right now, just like this. If you survive, you will be a young street rat and then you will be an old street rat, and there is nothing else in your future. But if you go home, if you go back to school, then all your futures come back to you. All your options open up again."

"I can't go home. Cash can't go home."

Christine hesitated. "Is someone at home hurting _him_?"

"No. I mean … no."

"You don't sound very sure of that."

"On it," Finch said. He sat down and pulled his keyboard to him.

"Cash and his dad … they don't get along. They never have. But it's not like he beats him or anything like that. It's just fighting. Arguments, not fight fights."

"You can't take care of Cash, Lis, until you can take care of yourself. And you are nowhere near ready to do that."

"I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out together. But I have to stay with him. Otherwise he's all alone. You don't get him, that's all. You don't understand."

There was a long pause. "You're right," Christine finally said. "I don't understand."

"I love him," Lis stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And I'm going to stay with him and take care of him. Because he needs me. Because without me he's all alone. And he shouldn't have to be all alone while he's trying to take care of … "

She stopped dead.

"Take care of who?" Christine prompted.

"I'm really tired," Lis answered. "I'm gonna go back to bed."

Finch shook his head. He brought up the link to Amelia's video plea and shot it to the girl's e-mail anonymously. "Tell her to check her e-mail before she goes back to sleep," he told Christine.

Christine did so. The teenager sniffed some thanks; the bedroom door closed quietly.

After a moment, Finch said, "Christine?"

"I'm here," she answered. "I'm sorry. I should have figured out something else to say to her."

"You did fine," he assured her. "You did the best you could. She's just not ready to listen yet."

"Is there something about this boy that I'm not seeing? Or is she just really that dumb?"

"Some of both, perhaps."

Christine went silent again. Across the space between them and the silence, Finch could feel how weary she was. "Are you alright? We could make other arrangements for the girl …"

"No, it's okay. I think I might actually be making progress with her. Tiny, tiny increments of progress. Hang on." After a moment she came back on the phone. "What was in her e-mail?"

"A video that her younger sister made. Is it working?"

"She's in there crying her eyes out. I'd say it got through the fog of Clay."

"Good."

After another long pause, Christine said, "Fusco called before. Mrs. Antonucci died."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I guess. I don't know. I'll miss her." She sighed. "You never said. Would you do it?"

Finch blinked. "Would I have killed him?" He thought about it for a very long moment. "I … think I would. But I would agonize over it, before and after."

"Yeah." Her voice sounded like a soft fond smile. "That was my guess."

"Would you?"

"Absolutely," she answered without hesitation. "But I would have killed myself, too."

"Even if, as Detective Fusco says, suicides go to hell?"

"Me and the Catholic church parted company a long time ago. And I can't reconcile an all-knowing, all-loving God who would punish her behind a thing like this." She paused. "Of course, there's an awful lot in the world that I can't reconcile. But that's a discussion for another day."

"It sounds like a topic for an extremely long lunch," Finch agreed.

"Are we ever going to do that again?" Her voice was ever so slightly wistful. Evidently she'd missed their lunches as much as he had. And he had missed them far more than he'd let himself realize.

"We are," Harold assured her. "I promise."

"Good."

"You should get some sleep."

"I'll sit up with you, if you want."

Finch smiled to himself. He could picture her there, working on her own computer on her own projects, but ready to swap occasional comments, banter, deep into the night. Just there, awake, with him. It was tempting. But he could hear the exhaustion in her voice.

And he had John for company in the night. Reese had gone silent after the second scream, but Finch could feel his presence still.

"You've had a busy day," he said to Christine, "and you're likely to have another one tomorrow. Go to bed. I'll call you if I need you."

"All right. Good night, Random."

"Sleep well, sweet Deirdre."

There was a short pause, then a surprised, delighted little giggle, and then she was silent. Harold muted their feed to her.

Reese did not ask who Deirdre was. Finch wondered if he'd actually gotten around to reading the Zelazny book he'd taken from the paperback section of the library, or if he was just letting them have their private little joke. Or both. "Mr. Reese?"

"Still here."

"Can I bring you anything?"

"No, I'm good for the night. Thank you, though."

Finch considered. "I haven't asked. And of course you don't have to answer."

"Would I do it?" Reese asked. "Yes."

"Just yes."

"Just yes."

Finch nodded to himself. He hadn't really expected any other answer.

* * *

As the sun came up, Aldo Rossi's men got out of their car one at a time and stepped around the corner of the building, presumably to take a leak. Then they gave up on their stake-out and drove away.

Their lack of speed convinced Reese that they still hadn't located Clay yet.

He waited a while more, mostly because he didn't have anywhere else to look. "Finch?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese."

"Got any new leads for me?"

"As to where Mr. Clay is at this moment? No."

Reese rolled his neck first right, then left, and shrugged his shoulders up and down to loosen them up.

"I've worked through all the credit cards," Finch continued. "There's nothing there that belonged to Aldo Rossi or any member of his gang."

"He's after him for some reason. Maybe it's a contract."

"That's possible."

"Clay didn't turn up here. I'll check back at his other places. I don't know where else to look."

"I can't believe he's not trying to find the girl somehow."

"He threw her at me so he could get away, Finch."

"This relationship does seem to be a bit one-sided," Finch concurred. "I looked at his family a bit more, after Miss Holland's comments last night. There are no reports of child abuse, no police reports of domestic disturbances or anything of the sort. But Edward's father, David, was badly injured in an industrial accident three years ago. He should be eligible for disability, but the case has been buried in the usual red tape of disputes and appeals. Their credit card bills are staggering, and it looks like they're barely holding on to the house."

"Can't be a happy household."

"I'm sure it's not. And perhaps Edward thought he was helping by leaving. One less mouth to feed."

Reese sighed heavily. "The girl didn't take the internet bait?"

"No. She read her e-mails, but didn't respond to any of them. Looked at her favorite social sites but didn't post to them."

"All right. I'll go check the places we know again. Keep me posted."

"I always do."

* * *

Christine checked in with Finch fairly early. It was two more hours before Lis woke up.

From what Finch could hear, the girl was subdued. Evidently she wasn't much of a morning person anyhow, and the emotions of the night had drained her. She ate the breakfast Christine gave her without protest, almost without comment. She genuinely didn't have an eating disorder, Finch concluded: She had a boyfriend disorder.

She logged onto her e-mail again, checked the messages, but didn't answer any.

Christine said, "Have you looked at any art schools?"

"Huh?"

"You want to be a photojournalist. Have you looked at any schools?"

"Oh. No. Not really."

Christine sighed, and Finch could hear the way her breath hissed between her clenched teeth. Of course the girl hadn't looked at art schools, or even thought about them. Her plans had aimed no further than being with Clay.

"Have you heard of NYSVA?"

"School of Visual Arts? Sure. They have killer connections. I mean, anybody who's anybody came out of there."

"They have a gallery open house for student works, third Thursday of every month. Which would be today. You want to go, have a look around?"

"Yeah!" Lis answered with great enthusiasm. And then, "But … no. I mean, there's really no point."

"Why not?"

"I can't afford to go there. Even if I finished high school."

"I'm sure they have a scholarship program."

"Yeah, but it's merit-based. I'm not the good."

"Are you sure?"

"And besides, I don't have anything to wear. I can't go like this. My clothes … stink."

"Do you know what this is?" Christine asked.

"It's a credit card."

"It's a magic credit card. With no limit and disappearing bills."

"They don't actually disappear," Finch reminded her gently.

She ignored him. "So you and me are going shopping, and then to lunch, and then to the gallery. Get your shoes."

Finch listened closely. He thought the teenager might balk. He should have known better. The girls dropped off the kitten with Zubec, and then they, and his credit card, were out the door.

* * *

John Reese felt like he was chasing his tail.

He'd circled back to all of the places Edward Clay had been known to frequent. The dive hotels. The homeless camps. The butcher shop, which was closed without any explanation posted. He stopped by and talked to William Robinson again. He crossed paths with Aldo Rossi's guys twice, but stayed out of their sight.

The boy would need money, Reese reasoned. He cruised through the most obvious tourist attractions, but there were a hundred more the boy might go to. The odds of being at the right one at the right time to catch Clay were impossibly small.

It was very, very easy to get lost in the homeless population of a major city. It was the most anonymous lifestyle there was. Reese had known that; that's why it was his choice when he decided to drop off the face of the earth. To find one boy, who had no connections to anything, was almost impossible.

He was chasing his tail, and he was sick of it.

He sat down on a bench on the middle of Time Square and called Finch.

"Where are the girls?" he asked.

"Shopping," Finch answered. In those two succinct syllables, the billionaire managed to convey a sense of despair and dread.

"With your credit card?"

"Yes."

"Ahh." That actually cheered Reese more than anything had all morning. "Any chance that Lis has tried to connect with Clay?"

"No. She said she didn't know how to."

"I'm hoping she lied." Reese surveyed the crowd around him. "We've got no way of finding this kid, Finch."

"I suppose the good news is that Rossi can't find him, either."

"No, but they're still looking, and there are more of them than there are of me."

"Do you want to change that ratio?" Finch suggested. "We could ask one of our friends to issue a BOLO on him."

Reese considered. Edward Clay actually had committed crimes; it wouldn't even be a stretch to issue a warrant for him. If he was in police custody, Rossi and his guys couldn't get to him. Except, John reflected, that they could, and easily. Aldo Rossi was small-time, but he probably had connections, maybe all the way up to Elias, who was certainly running the prison system from the inside. Still, he might be better off in jail than on the street.

"Let's hold off on that," he finally said. "If he doesn't turn up by tonight we can give it another look."

"Very well. What are you going to do now?"

John shook his head. "I guess I'll go chase my tail some more."


	10. Chapter 10

Finch stayed at the library for a time. He listened to Reese grumble as he roamed the city. He listened to Christine grumble as she followed Lis from store to store. He watched the credit card charges mount, and though he grumbled himself, the truth was that the teenager did not manage to spend more on her shopping spree than Harold routinely spent on a single suit.

Christine also took Lis to a salon, where, judging from the cost, the teen had her hair cut and colored one strand at a time and then had all of her nails dipped in pure gold and studded with diamonds.

But nothing they did really gave Finch pause until they hit the camera shop. Even there, Finch would not have begrudged the several thousand dollars they spent if he had not been certain that Lis planned to return or pawn the new equipment the minute she got back to the street.

Of course, she wasn't _going_ back to the street, so it didn't really matter.

The girls settled in for an early lunch just off Broadway. When he heard Lis excuse herself and leave for the ladies' room, Finch reached out to Christine. "Can she get away from you there?" Finch asked in Christine's ear.

"She may think so," Christine answered, "but there's no exit back there. Don't worry. I can see the doorway from here."

"I wasn't worried."

"You sounded worried. No word on the idiot boy?"

"No. Are you still alright with Miss Holland?"

"We're fine. As long as the numbers don't wear off that credit card."

Finch chuckled grimly. "Whatever it takes to keep her happy." And then, "But did she really need _three _pairs of boots?"

"One in every color."

"Of course."

"They are pretty kickin' boots, I have to say."

Finch sighed. "Then go back and get yourself a pair. Or three."

"Aww, you are so good to me." She paused. "That's … "

"What?"

"Nothing. I just saw somebody I used to know."

"You know quite a lot of people."

"Well, yes. But this one left town decades ago. "

"Should we be worried?"

"What? No. He's just having lunch. It's interesting, that's all. Unexpected."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And my girl's back."

"Keep in touch."

"Kinda hard not to."

* * *

Torres' phone rang just as his steak arrived. He ignored it. It rang again. He ignored it again.

Smithy's phone rang. "Don't answer that," Torres said.

The other man glanced at his phone. "It's Al."

"I figured."

"Asshole." Smithy answered his phone. "Yeah, Al, what's up?"

There was some audible bitching. "I don't know," Smithy said, "he must have it turned off or something. Maybe the battery died. What'cha need?"

He listened again. From across the table, Torres could hear how agitate their boss was. He smirked. Rossi might be wearing a tie these days, but he was still a punk on the inside. The old man snapped his fingers and Little Aldo jumped.

"Yeah, we'll take care of it," Smithy finally said. He put his phone away and gestured for the waitress. "We need to go with this stuff."

"What the hell?" Torres protested. "I just got sat down. What's Little Al got that can't wait until I finish my lunch?"

"The girl that was with that kid he wants? Somebody just saw her. He wants us to follow her."

"What? I just fucking sat down."

"Hey, I don't give the orders," Smithy said. "And neither do you."

"Yeah," Torres answered darkly. "Not yet, anyhow."

* * *

Finch had been to the New York School for the Visual Arts several times, but not since they'd rebuilt the front entrance. It had been a rather bland but functional lobby; now it was a sweeping two-story atrium and gallery space with entrances at each end.

_Money well spent_, he thought with satisfaction.

The showing was sparsely attended, mostly by students who were there for the free food, but there were a few people who might be buyers or tourists, and several more who were celebrities in the photography world. He spotted Christine sitting on a bench near the front door. It took him longer to spot Elisa Holland on the upper balcony. She had changed into one of her new outfits, had her new camera slung over her shoulder, and was literally surrounded by young college men.

He sat on the far end of the bench from Christine. "Scarlett O'Hara, taking barbeque?"

She glanced over at him, smiled, then looked away as if she didn't know him. "Oh, yes."

"I'm not sure throwing her in with college boys was quite the direction we wanted to take."

"College boys," Christine mused, "with scholarships and ambition and plans for their futures. Plus they smell good." She glanced over again. "She is beginning to see the possibilities beyond a world of Clay."

"A worthwhile achievement, I suppose."

"Of course, this crowd is all artists, but it's just an icebreaker. I'll move her up to B-School boys tomorrow."

Finch smiled briefly. "She's still sixteen, remember."

"Eh, none of them are much older than her current boyfriend. And the sexual impropriety genie is already out of the bottle anyhow."

"Which doesn't mean we have to encourage it."

"I wasn't planning to let her leave with any of them."

The group on the balcony laughed at some joke and moved on to the next photo on display.

"Still," Christine teased gently, "in my experience there's a lot to be said for consorting with older men."

"We're listening," Reese said over the com.

The woman jumped. "I will _never_ get used to that."

"Sorry," John answered, in a tone that said he was no such thing. "You were saying, about older men? I could use a little good news."

Christine chuckled. "Well, for starters, if I try a new move in bed with a younger guy , nine times out of ten he freaks out. Gets all threatened and jealous and demands to know where I learned it. Whereas if I show an older man the same move, he'll usually thank me sincerely and adds it to his repertoire."

Finch started to blush. He looked away from the young woman, toward the window — and spotted a black SUV. He stood up and moved toward the front casually. "Mr. Reese," he said, his voice ending the playful flirtation of his companions, "we have a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"Aldo Rossi is here."

"He's after the girl."

"He's outside on the street. They may be tailing Miss Holland, hoping she'll lead them to Clay."

"You need to get her out of there right now."

"I'm on it." Christine stood and hurried up the steps to the balcony.

"You know where the back entrance is?" Finch asked, through the com.

"I do. I wired the place." She pushed through the flock of boys gently. "Lis? We've got to go."

The first thing the teenager did was look at her newly-acquired watch. "No. I want to stay."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said tightly. He moved back from the window, looking for options. "She's meeting him here."

"Are you sure?"

Christine took the girl's arm. "I'm sorry, but we need to go right now."

"No!" Lis said sharply. "I'm staying here." She moderated her tone a little. "I just want to stay a little bit longer, okay? I haven't seen everything yet."

"Is Clay meeting you here?"

"What? No."

"She's lying," Finch said flatly.

"Lis, we have to _go_."

"Oh, let her stay …" one of the college boys protested.

Christine Fitzgerald silenced him with a look.

"I'm not leaving!" Lis said loudly. "I'm staying here."

Christine pulled her very close. "The guys who want to kill Clay," she said quietly, "are outside right now. And you're nothing but bait. So let's go."

"I … but … "

"_Now_."

The teenager moved. Finch watched as they left the balcony, not down the stairs but through a back hallway that presumably led to an exit.

"Get a cab," Reese said. "If you're not being followed, take her back to Chaos."

"Got it."

"Finch?" Reese continued. "I'm on my way. Any sign of the boy?"

"Not yet." Finch went out the south door and stood on the sidewalk in front of the atrium. He pretended to listen to his phone while he looked around. "I don't see …"

And then he did see. The boy was walking briskly toward the north entrance, blissfully unaware of the two thugs who were closing on him.

Finch shuffled through his options in his head. Clay was sixty feet away; he couldn't run at him and knock him out of harm's way. He could shout a warning, but the men had weapons; they might just shoot the boy and run. They were not more than ten steps from overtaking him. Finch could …

He wheeled, hurried back into the atrium, and pulled the fire alarm.

The sudden noise brought both Clay and his pursuers up short. The wave of students that came out the door gave Clay a bit of cover. He pushed on toward the building. The men after him fought through the crowd. Finch took the chance, then, and shouted, "Clay! Behind you!"

The young man looked startled. He looked over his shoulder. Picked up the threat immediately. Then he began to run.

He turned out of the crowd and ran across the street, still looking over his shoulder.

"Finch?" Reese worried in his earpiece.

"No, don't!" Finch yelled.

The boy either couldn't hear him or didn't listen. He dodged through the traffic, around a sedan and a taxi, and reached the far curb safely. He skirted along the side of the black SUV, still looking back at the men who we chasing him.

"Clay!" Finch shouted hopelessly.

Aldo Rossi's biggest man simply opened the driver's door, grabbed the young man, and stuffed him into the back seat.

"Finch!" Reese shouted.

Finch sagged against the front window of the school. "They have him, Mr. Reese." He felt sick; the failure tasted bitter in the back of his throat.

"Get out of there, Finch."

Finch moved into the doorway.

The SUV started and made a U-turn, badly. It stopped in front of the two men who'd been chasing Clay. The passenger window rolled down. Aldo Rossi pointed toward the school. "Find the girl," he ordered. The blacked-out window rolled up, and the vehicle sped away.

The two men hurried into the empty, siren-blasted gallery through the other entrance. Finch moved away from the building, caught up with the crowd of students as the fire trucks arrived.

"Christine?" he asked heavily. "Are you clear?"

"We're clear. Are you alright?"

"Yes. But they've taken Clay."

"We'll get him back," Reese promised grimly.

"And they're looking for the girl," Finch continued. " I'm sending you the address of a safe house."

"Okay." She did not, blessedly, ask any questions. He'd known that she wouldn't.

Reese said, "Finch, I need to know where Rossi would take him."

"I've already compiled a list. Sending it to you now." Finch sent the file from his phone. Normally he would have felt a hint of smugness at his preparation. In the wake of the boy's abduction, it felt like a hollow victory.

There were half a dozen locations on the list. Their odds of finding the boy alive were vanishingly small. "Where do you want me to start?"

There was a little pause, presumably while Reese looked over the list. Finch knew that the operative wanted to tell him to go back to the library and let him handle it. He also knew that John knew he wouldn't do that. It was a small blessing in their relationship that they knew each other well enough now to be spared those small sharp discussions.

"Why don't you look …" Reese stopped, because his other phone line had rung. "Hang on, Finch."

The com went silent.

Finch continued to move away from the art school, blending into the crowd, disappearing from sight. Not for the first time, he wished he could disappear from himself.

* * *

Reese looked at his phone curiously. The caller ID that had come up was 'Pay Station'. He assumed that meant a pay phone somewhere, and he wondered for a wild instant if the Machine was calling him directly. He pushed the button cautiously. "Hello?"

"John?"

The woman's voice was soft, quiet, as if she wasn't used to talking on phones. But it was definitely human, and also familiar. "Joan?"

"Hey," his old friend said warmly, "Do you remember Devin? He wears the long blue scarf, has the scar on his neck?"

"I remember him."

"I don't know if this matters, but that boy you're looking for? Some wise guys on the street asked Devin about him."

"I know," John said. "They found him."

"Oh. Then maybe this is no help. But one of them gave Devin his card. A business card. Sort of."

Reese straightened. "Is there a phone number on it?"

"Sure is. Does it help?"

"It might help save a life. Joan, you're an angel."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"How did you contact him?" Christine demanded.

Lis looked around the cab, miserable, desperate to escape. "Is he safe?"

"How did you contact him?" Christine said again.

"I … borrowed a lady's cell phone. In the bathroom."

"Cash had a cell phone all along?"

"No. There's this ap, a voice mail thing, you can leave messages or check messages. He said if we got separated we should check every day, noon and midnight."

"So why didn't you call him last night?"

"I wasn't sure when I could get away from you. Is he okay? Is Eddie safe?"

"No," Christine answered bluntly. "He's not. He's in danger, and my friends are in danger, and it could have been avoided if you'd told us the truth."

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I don't even know you. How am I supposed to trust you?" The girl started to cry. "Is he really in trouble?"

"Yes. He's really in trouble." Christine looked out as the cab stopped. She paid the driver quickly, got out and half-dragged the weeping teenager after her. "And so are you, so let's move."

She got them upstairs and locked behind the apartment door, then took a quick look around before she keyed her earwig. "Random? We're here."

"Good," he answered. "Stay there. Keep the door locked."

"Are you talking to John?" Lis asked eagerly. "Is he with Cash?"

Christine shook her head. "Random, I think I screwed up."

"How so?"

"The guy in the restaurant, that I said was nothing? See if Aldo Rossi and Teeny Bellatore are connected somehow."

"Teeny … I know that name."

"He was big in the Five Families when I was a kid. He retired upstate probably twenty years ago. But he was in the restaurant."

"Are you sure it was him?"

"He's pretty hard to miss."

"Checking," Finch answered. "James 'Teeny' Bellatore. His sister is Aldo Rossi's mother."

"Damn it."

"He must have recognized Elisa somehow, and told Rossi where to find her."

"I'm sorry."

"You couldn't have known," Finch answered. "And you're not the one who let him get taken."

"This isn't your fault, Random." Christine looked toward where Lis had collapsed onto the couch in a sobbing ball. "How can I help?"

"Stay where you are," Reese answered unexpectedly. "And keep the girl with you. We might have caught a break."

* * *

Reese made his voice lower and rougher than usual when the man answered the number he dialed. "This Leonardo?"

The man sounded confused. "Yeah. Who's this?"

"Devin," Reese lied. "You gave me your card yesterday. Said you were looking for Cash Clay?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah. We got him now."

"You want his girl?"

The man hesitated. "You have the girl?"

"Know where she is. Lookin' right at her."

"Where at?"

John grinned to himself, but kept it out of his voice. "You make it worth my time to tell you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hundred bucks when I get there. Just tell me where she is."

"'kay." John gave him an address. "Alley around the back."

"I'll be right there. If she moves, you follow her and call me back."

Reese snorted. "Okay, but that'll cost you extra."

"Whatever. I'm on my way."

Reese put his phone away, shrugged shoulders loose. and settled back to wait.


	11. Chapter 11

"For what it's worth," Finch said into the aching silence on the com, "I think I know what Clay is doing with all the money he steals."

"Do tell," Reese answered. His voice had the slow, deep edge that it got when he was ready to fight.

"Remember I told you his parents were barely holding on to the house? I assumed they were living off their savings, perhaps borrowing money from friends or relatives. Mrs. Clay has made been making her mortgage payments for more than a year using money orders. Which she's purchasing with cash. And she receives a Fedex envelope almost every week. Shipped from various walk-in stores throughout New York City."

"He's sending the money home?" John asked.

"It looks that way. He has three younger brothers. He may have been reluctant to see them become homeless."

"No legal way for a teenager to make enough money to cover a mortgage," Reese sighed, "so he found an illegal way."

"And Lis came to take care of him so he could take care of them," Christine added. "Damn it, please don't tell me I have to start liking this idiot now."

"Well, he's still an idiot," Reese consoled her.

"Just an idiot with a big heart," Finch finished for him.

The woman growled. "Damn it."

"Let's see if we can our idiot back," Reese said grimly.

* * *

For a mobster, Leonardo Torres wasn't particularly cautious. He walked into the alley with his hands empty, and though he looked around, he didn't spot the man in the shadows.

Reese simply stepped out and put his gun against the man's head. "Devin couldn't make it," he said.

Torres put his hands out in front of him, palms up. "Don't want no trouble here, friend."

"I'm not your friend," Reese growled. He took the man's gun and tucked it into his own belt. Then he ran his hands down both legs until he found the other gun in the ankle holster and took that one, too. "You're going to show me where Aldo Rossi has Edward Clay." He also took the man's cell phone.

"Who?"

"Cash."

"Oh." This news did not seem to upset the mobster very much. "Yeah, sure. I'll tell you where they went."

"No," Reese corrected, "you'll _show_ me where they went."

"Fine, fine."

It was too easy, John thought. Obviously the man thought Rossi and his men could overpower him once he got there. Reese was willing to take that bet.

He slapped his — Stills' — handcuffs on the man and marched him back to his — Christine's — car. As he slid behind the wheel, he looked over at the man.

Torres looked so smug that Reese wanted to punch him right there. But he needed him conscious. Later, he promised himself. He smiled at the mobster. Torres smiled back. "Where to?"

* * *

Eventually Lis stopped crying and curled up on the couch next to Christine. "John can get him back, right?"

"Yes."

"Just like that? You're that sure?"

"Yes."

"Shouldn't we … I mean, we could go help somehow … "

"No."

"But why?"

"Because the very last thing John Reese needs right now is you, or me, jostling his elbow while he's working. Just wait."

"I hate waiting."

"I know." Christine stroked the girl's hair as if she were a child. It seemed to comfort her. "You knew where the money was going, didn't you? Why didn't you tell us?"

Lis teared up again. "Eddie made me promise. He said nobody could know."

The girl had stopped calling him Cash, Christine noted. It was all Eddie now. She wondered if that was a sign of progress. The romance of street life fading away in the girl's mind. "His parents must know."

"His mom does. Probably. His dad doesn't. He'd have a fit. He'd never take the money."

"Proud or just stubborn?"

"Both, I guess. Eddie wanted to quit school and get a job. His dad wouldn't let him. They had these big screaming fights about it. But they were going to lose the house. Finally Eddie just left." Lis sat up, wiped her eyes with her fist. "I wanted to come with him, when he first ran away, but he said I was too young. He made me wait until I was sixteen." She pouted just a little. "I _told_ you he loved me."

Christine shook her head. "There were other options."

The girl shook her head firmly. "I'm staying with him."

"Hmmmm."

"If we get him back," Lis amended.

"We'll get him back," Christine assured her again.

* * *

Reese eyed the building critically. The windows were eight feet off the ground. The door was steel and had only a very small security window in it. There was no keypad in evidence. "Is there a back way?" he asked.

Torres shook his head.

Reese didn't believe him. But both the town car and the SUV were parked in front of the building. Rossi's only interest in Clay seemed to be revenge for whatever the kid had stolen from him. Now that he had him, there was no reason to keep him alive. The boy was probably running out of time.

He marched Torres to front door, took off his handcuffs, and stood to the side, out of sight, still with his gun aimed at his head. "Knock."

Torres knocked.

The little security door opened. Torres smiled, showed his open hands. The main door opened.

Reese shoved Torres inside, pushing back the man who'd answered the door. He spun and hit Torres in the jaw. The man dropped. He flailed a little, but made no attempt to get up. The door guard came at Reese, and he dropped him with a combination.

He moved.

Three more men loitered outside what looked like an office. They had guns out by then. Reese fired first. He got one in the thigh, just above the knee. By then he was close enough to hit the second one in the head with his gun.

The third man was the one Reese had dropped in the butcher shop. He simply dropped his gun and ran, with an odd gait, slightly sideways. _Concussion,_ John thought, _and a bad one_. He let him go.

The door of the office flew open and there were more men and more guns. But they were bunched up in the doorway, like fish in a barrel. John shot one in the leg, a second in the shoulder. He stepped in closer, kicked the gun away from the first man. The thug with the shoulder wound tried to raise his gun and simply couldn't; Reese reached down and took it from him almost gently, then twisted his wrist until he heard it crack.

The man screamed. John ignored him; he had his hands full with the next two who squeezed out the door. He clipped the first one with the butt of his gun, threw an elbow back at the other, then turned, threw a right at his ribs and then a left at his face as he bent over. He went down. The first one came at Reese's back. John grabbed his forearm and bent at the waist, throwing him against the doorframe and then letting him fall.

And then he moved into the office.

Aldo Rossi waited just inside, flat against the wall. He put his gun to Reese's head as he cleared the doorway. "Drop it," he said.

Reese straightened, both hands in front of him, and looked around. Edward Clay was in a chair against the wall, gagged and in zip ties. The boy's eyes were huge and very frightened. He was bruised up. But he was alive.

Rossi jiggled his gun. "I said drop it."

"What do you want with the boy, Aldo?" Reese asked.

"I said _drop the gun_!" The mobster's voice took a thin high edge, verging on a scream.

Reese loosened his grip on the gun, let it swing by the trigger guard from his fingertips, then bent slightly to let it drop to the floor as gently as possible.

"Now move!" Rossi barked.

John turned his head and looked squarely at the mobster. He was surprised how young he was. And that there was fear visible in his eyes, too. _He's new to this_, Reese thought suddenly. _And he's out of his league._

He didn't waste any time feeling sorry him. He turned his shoulders a little, but kept his hands out in front of him. Palms open. The sign of surrender, of peace-making. Of giving up.

Then he closed his fist and flashed it into Rossi's nose.

The mobster did scream then as he dropped to the floor. Reese grabbed his arm and twisted until he released his gun. Then he let the man slump, with both hands covering his broken nose.

John collected all the guns. It was a pretty impressive collection. Then he moved over behind Clay, drew his knife and snapped off the zip ties. The boy reached up and took his gag out. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Reese cut his legs free. "I'm from Children's Services," he said.

"Really?"

"No. C'mon, let's go." He helped the boy up; Clay was a little unsteady, but he could walk. They moved to the door.

Torres waited outside.

Reese tensed, ready for one more round, but Torres made the same universal hands-empty gesture Reese had just used. "Don't want no trouble with you," he said. "Just take the boy and go."

"You tell your boss," Reese warned, "that if he comes near the boy again, I'll come back. And if I have to come back there won't be any survivors."

"I believe you," Torres said sincerely.

John moved past him, still half-supporting the boy.

"No survivors," he heard Torres mutter.

Reese spun, raising his gun and shoving Clay to the ground at the same time. But Torres wasn't there. A gunshot sounded inside the office. John hurried back to the doorway, and came face-to-face with him again. This time the man's hands weren't empty. He aimed his gun at John. John aimed his gun back at him.

They were barely two feet apart.

Reese glanced down. Aldo Rossi was clearly dead.

"Nothing personal," Torres said. "But Rossi was an idiot. I needed to get rid of him."

"And now you'll have to get rid of me," Reese guessed.

"That's the plan."

"You need a new plan."

"No," Torres said easily, "I think I'm good with this one."

Clay screamed, "Behind you!"

Reese pivoted and fired at the thug who was coming up on him. The bullet hit him squarely in the chest. It was, John noted, the one who'd run away from him, the one with the concussion. That wouldn't matter anymore. He wheeled back, leaned to his left to avoid the bullet he knew was coming, and fired at Torres.

When the echo died, so did the man.

Reese shook his head. Carter was not going to be happy about this. Maybe she wouldn't know it was him.

He looked around at the wounded men. She was going to know.

He hauled Clay up from the floor and headed out.

* * *

Harold Finch watched and listened from a bench as the two women entered the park. Bear sat calm and alert at his feet. When they were past him, he stood up and followed quietly. Christine glanced at him, but her companion didn't.

"I don't see him," Lis said anxiously, scanning the part for her boyfriend.

"They'll be here," Christine answered. She looked back at Finch. "And then you'll have as long as it takes your parents to drive in from Connecticut to tell him goodbye."

The teenager spun. "What?"

"Your parents are coming to get you," Christine repeated. "You're going home. Tonight."

"No, I'm not. I'm not leaving Cash."

Fitzgerald sighed patiently. "We've pushed through David Clay's disability claim. Three years of back payments for the claim will be deposited in their bank account today, and then regular monthly payments will be sent. It's not a lot, but it will let them keep the house and feed the kids. Eddie doesn't need to send them money to support them anymore."

Lis blinked at her. "But … I … I'm still staying with him. He needs me."

"Nope. You're going home, and going back to school."

"You can't make me."

Finch moved closer. "We can, actually. We hope it won't come to that."

The girl looked at him, startled. She hadn't even noticed him before. Her eyes flashed down to Bear, then came back up. "Who are you?"

"That's not important. You will return to your parents' home, and you will go back to high school." He held a pamphlet out to her. "We've arranged for you to be part of the Young Artists Group through VSA. Every other Saturday you'll come to the city and spend the day learning the art and business of photography with some of the top professionals in the field. If you wish to visit with Mr. Clay on those weekends, we have no particular objection."

"_What_?"

"It's a prestigious opportunity, and gives you the best chance at a scholarship. I urge you not to waste it."

"You can't make me go home. You can't make me leave him."

"Mr. Clay can also return home, if he wishes. If he remains in the city, we have arranged for him to be mentored by a man who's been in a position similar to his. Mr. Robinson will help him acquire a job and a place to live, and make sure that he works toward obtaining his GED."

"I'm not leaving him," Lis insisted.

Finch sighed. He'd predicted that the teens would be difficult. He was prepared. "Those are the carrots, Miss Holland. This is the stick. If either you or Mr. Clay fail to comply with the terms we've set forth, Mr. Clay will be arrested and charged with multiple counts of theft, as well as with illegal sexual contact with a minor."

"And enticing a minor to cross state lines for illicit sexual purposes," Christine added.

Lis shook her head, almost smiled. "Uh-uh. You can't do that. We looked it up. Age of consent is sixteen. And we didn't do anything before my birthday."

"Age of consent is sixteen in Connecticut," Finch answered calmly. "In the State of New York the age of consent is seventeen."

Christine said. "And thanks to your visit to the clinic, we can likely provide DNA evidence."

"You _bitch_."

"Your boyfriend, Miss Holland," Finch said, "will be convicted as a child sexual predator." It was a half-truth at best; given the closeness of their ages, Clay could likely only be charged with a misdemeanor. But the girl didn't seem to know that, and he wasn't about to enlighten her. "His life will be, for all practical purposes, over."

"You wouldn't. You wouldn't dare."

Finch glanced at the older woman. "Last time I crossed him," Christine said, "I ended up in four-point restraints. Trust me, kid, he ain't playin'."

Harold cringed inwardly, but kept it carefully off his face. To Lis he had to remain unmoved, implacable.

The girl looked frightened, angry, confused. "But I love him!" she wailed.

"You can love him when you're eighteen." Finch answered. "But you're not going to throw away your life to do it."

"But …"

"You have a talent, Miss Holland," he continued. "A gift. And it can take you anywhere you want to go, if you make the right choices. You can have everything you dream of." He glanced at Christine again. "If you continue on your current path, that future will most certainly be lost. Your life will likely be short and brutal, and there's a very good possibility you will die in the gutter. And we are not going to allow that."

"But … but …"

"This isn't a discussion," Christine told her. "You're going home. Tonight."

The teenager gave up and wept.

"They're here," Finch said.

She turned. Reese and Clay were walking toward them from the far side of the park. Reese moved with his usual easy confidence. The boy seemed deflated, defeated. Evidently Reese had filled him in on his new romantic reality as well.

Lis started toward them. Christine grabbed her arm suddenly, stopped her. "That guy. Have you ever seen him before?"

Finch looked where she pointed. A massive older man was moving toward Reese and Clay with purposeful strides. "Christine?"

"John?" she called urgently. Reese's head snapped up; he picked up her alarm through the earwig. "John, watch the …"

The big man pulled a gun and pointed it at Clay.

Reese pulled his own gun and pointed it at the big man.

Christine said, "Shit! Hold her." She shoved Elisa toward Finch and then started toward the three men and two guns at a dead sprint.

"Christine!" Finch called after her.

"Eddie!" Lis screamed under his voice. She started off; Finch yanked her back. She turned and buried her face against his shoulder.

Bear growled. He wanted to go help, too. Finch uttered a quiet command, and the dog sat, intensely alert.

He put his arm around the girl, patted her shoulder gently. And watched.

There was nothing else he could do.


	12. Chapter 12

Carter went to rinse out her coffee mug before she left for the day. When she got back, there was a fat case file on her desk. She scowled at it, but when she got close enough she could see that it was stamped 'CLOSED'. That made it a little better.

Actually, that made it a lot better.

She sat down and turned the file sideways to read the tab. _Fitzgerald, Thomas_. Carter looked up quickly. Fusco's desk was empty; he was out on a call somewhere. She opened the file gently, reverently.

After she'd skimmed the first few pages, she stopped, stood up, and went to get another cup of coffee. Then she came back and sat down to read in earnest.

* * *

John stared up at the man with the gun. He was huge. The last time he'd had seen a man that size, he was an Aryan Brother and Reese had ended up stealing his dog. His knuckles still ached, thinking about hitting that man. The way his hand had simply bounced off the man's midsection …

This man was bigger. Older, a little softer maybe, but definitely bigger.

Of course, the gun in his hand made the man's physical size somewhat irrelevant.

The big guy glanced at Reese and his gun, but his own aim never wavered from the boy. "On your knees," he ordered.

Clay, thankfully, had the good sense to throw his arms up and drop to the ground. "Please don't kill me," he said. His voice was a good octave higher than normal. "Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me."

"Shut up."

The boy did.

_Now what?_ Reese thought. Before he came up with an answer. Christine Fitzgerald appeared at his elbow. He glanced at her. She shouldn't be here, almost literally jostling his elbow. She knew better. He looked over to where Finch was holding the girl. Good. But what the hell was Christine up to?

She ignored him and looked at the big guy. "Hey, Teeny? Mr. Bellatore? You remember me?"

The man glanced at her. "Should I, sweetheart?"

_Teeny?_ Reese thought._ That's Teeny Bellatore? Sure. What else would you call a guy that size?_

"I'm Chrissy. Used to be. Ginger ale in a rock glass, two pineapple chunks and a cherry on a plastic sword?"

He looked at her again. "Chrissy?" Recognition washed over his face. His gun never strayed from Clay's head. "No shit. How you been, girl?" He smiled at her.

"Not bad. You?"

"Okay. Knees bother me some, when it rains. Other than that, can't complain. I heard about your dad. Real sorry how that went down."

"Thanks."

Reese stared at them. Just a casual friendly chat in the park, old friends catching up, as if there were not two guns being aimed between the four of them. Clay, in a rare show of good sense, stayed on his knees with his hands up.

"How's your mom?" Teeny asked.

"Dead, too."

"Good. That bitch was the meanest drunk I ever met."

"Tell me about it."

Clay said, "Please don't kill me."

"We're _talkin'_ here," Teeny snapped at him, "so shut the hell up." He glanced at the woman again. "You still hangin' around the bar?"

"I own it now."

"Do you? Good for you. Always knew you were a smart kid."

Christine shrugged. "Gave up the liquor license, turned it into a cyber café."

"A what now?"

"Coffee shop, with computers."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Heard about those. All the thing now, huh? You makin' any money?"

"Not really."

"Huh. What about Zubec? What's he up to?"

"He's still there."

Teeny shook his head. "That guy. I tell you. You're gonna have to haul him out of there feet-first."

"I know, right?"

Reese cleared his throat softly. Christine nodded without looking at him. "So, Teeny, it's none of my business, but how come you're going to waste this kid?"

"Got to. He stole my wife's purse, called her names."

Clay's eyes got very big. He started to say something; Reese shook his head and he stayed quiet.

"I didn't know you were married."

"Just since Monday. We came down to the city on our honeymoon."

"That's nice. Congratulations."

"Thanks." The big guy shrugged. "And then this dipshit went and made her cry. How I gonna let that go, Chrissy? He made Holly cry."

"You married _Holly_?" From her tone, Reese could tell Christine was completely astonished, and not in any good way.

The big guy grinned. "I know, I know. But I love her."

"She _shot_ you, Teeny!"

"I know, kid. She got jealous. You know how she is."

"She _shot _you."

"I waited for her," he announced proudly. "Nineteen years. She got out of jail Monday. I picked her up from the jail and drove her straight to the courthouse and married her." He waved the gun again. "And then this idiot. Christ."

There was a short silence. She'd been doing okay until then, but Reese realized Christine was too surprised to continue the conversation. "You know," he said carefully, "if you shoot this kid, either I'm going to shoot you or you're going to jail. Either way, the honeymoon's over."

The man turned his eyes to Reese. "I know," he answered sadly. "But he made her cry. She's my bride. What am I gonna do, just let that slide? Waited this long to marry her, and this jackoff makes her cry on her honeymoon."

Christine stirred, got back into the game. "Look, Teeny, this boy's an idiot. I know, I've been with his girlfriend for two days, and this kid is dumb as a stump."

"So?"

"So it's not worth going to jail for a dumbass. Can't you just … make him apologize to Holly and beat the shit out of him and call it a day?"

Reese looked at her. "Christine?"

"Did you punch him in the kidneys when I asked you to?"

"Well … no."

"Well, then."

Teeny considered. "He need his ass kicked anyhow? How come?"

"Told his girlfriend to stay skinny so he didn't have to wear a condom. She's sixteen."

He looked back at the boy. "Seriously? You never heard of AIDs? What are you, a fucking moron?"

"That's what I said," Christine confirmed.

Teeny shook his head. "Yeah. You weren't kidding." He considered a minute longer, then shouted without turning his head. "Holly! Holly, come over here!"

An older woman walked over to them. She was thin, haggard, bitter-looking, but she was very well-dressed. "What the fuck, Teeny? Why haven't you killed this kid yet?"

_Ah, wonderful_, Reese thought. _That's just the attitude we need_ _here._

"Hey," Teeny said calmly, "you remember Chrissy? Tommy's kid?"

The woman looked Christine up and down. "What, the crazy Mick's ugly little bastard?"

Reese put his free hand on Christine's shoulder. She didn't actually lunge at the woman, but he could feel in her body how much she wanted to.

"This boy's an idiot," Teeny went on. "He's going to apologize to you. And he's going to make it really good. Really good, right, boy?"

"Yeah," Clay squeaked. "Yeah. I'm sorry, uh, ma'am. I'm really sorry. I didn't, uh … I didn't realize, I needed the money, my family, I, uh …"

The woman's face darkened, and so did Teeny's.

"And you're sorry you called her names," Reese prompted.

"Oh, yeah, that. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I … I was just, you know, trying to, um …"

"Impress your girl," Christine suggested.

"Yeah, that. Wanted to make her think I was a tough guy, you know, but I … I didn't mean any of it, I swear. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Teeny looked to his bride. "That enough?"

She glared up at him. "That's it? You think some mealy-mouth apology makes it right? God Almighty, when did you get to be such a pussy?" She turned and stomped away, as well as she could in heels on the soft grass. "What the fuck was I thinking, marrying such a pussy?"

Teeny shrugged, almost apologetically. He put his gun away, and Reese lowered his. "Get up," the big man told the boy.

Clay scrambled to his feet. "I really am sorry, Mister … "

Christine grabbed Reese's arm and pulled. "Back up," she said urgently. "Backupbackupbackup."

John took one big step backward, not voluntarily but because she'd yanked him off balance. It was enough, though. The fist the size of a ham missed his face by an inch as it swung.

It did not miss Clay. The hand connected with the boy's face with an audible crack. The boy left his feet, flew five feet backward, and came down hard on his back.

Teeny straightened his jacket, rubbed his knuckles. He nodded to John, and then to the girl. "Good to see you again, Chrissy."

"She's going to kill you, Teeny. Kill you or get you killed."

His face grew solemn. "Waited all these years for her, Chrissy. What else I gonna do?

She shook her head. Then she walked over and gave the man a hug. Her arms didn't come close to reaching all the way around him. He patted her back gently with the same massive hand that had just leveled the boy. They parted, and Teeny strode after his angry bride.

Lis ran past them and dropped to her knees beside Clay. He stirred, rubbed his jaw and then the back of his head. She helped him sit up, put her arms around him.

Reese watched them for a moment. He rubbed his own jaw sympathetically. Then he took Christine's arm and they walked back to Finch.

* * *

**1992**

The Hemlock Bar was smoky and loud. The conversation was rough, frequently vulgar. There was a prize fight showing on the two TV sets over the bar, but the sound was turned way down; no one cared what the announcers had to say. The skinny little girl at the far end of the bar barely noticed her surroundings. She kicked her feet well above the floor as she read her book. She squinted a lot; the light wasn't good, and neither were her glasses. But it was a lot more peaceful in the bar than it would have been at home.

Teeny Bellatore came in. There was a general commotion; Teeny never went anywhere without causing a stir, and this bar was the center of his little kingdom. He made his way through the bar slowly, pausing to swap greetings and slap backs along the way. His voice boomed through the place. The little girl looked up and smiled as he came over to her.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hey, Mr. Bellatore."

"Readin' again, huh? Never saw a kid read as much as you do."

"Don't have a TV at home."

He glanced at the bruises on her arms, and the one on her cheek. A couple of them were fresh. "Your mom's on a tear again, huh?"

"Yeah."

He put a big hand on the child's back, gestured to the bartender. "You stay as long as you want, then. Unless the cops show up. Then you got to go."

"I know. Thanks, Mr. Bellatore."

Igor Zubec came down to her end of the bar and put a drink in front of her. It looked like a cocktail, brownish liquid in a rock glass, with a fancy skewer with pineapple and a cherry. The girl smiled up at him, and Zubec gave her a wink.

"Eat the fruit this time," Teeny said. "Probably the only fruit you'll see this week."

"Thank you." She bit one piece of pineapple, sipped at the ginger ale.

Teeny nodded, but his attention had been distracted by a young woman in a very short back dress. "Hey, Nancy, lookin' good tonight."

Zubec groaned and moved away.

Teeny went off and put his arm around the young woman. The little girl went back to her book.

The next time she looked up, Teeny was sitting with his back to the door and Nancy on his lap. But what had caught her eye was the front door of the bar opening. A thin, short woman came in. She looked around quickly, glared at Teeny, and walked right back out.

The girl thought a moment, then slid off the bar stool and made her way quietly to where the big man sat. "Mr. Bellatore?" she said anxiously.

He looked up, annoyed, and drew his hand out from under Nancy's skirt. "Whatcha' want, kid?"

She gestured toward the door. "Holly."

He twisted to look toward the door. "I don't see her."

"She left. But she was here."

Teeny frowned at her. "It's alright, kiddo. Go read your book."

Nancy giggled. "Yeah, little four-eyes, go read your book"

"Hey, you be nice," Teeny scolded. "Or I'll have to bite you." He bent his head and nibbled on her neck Nancy squealed and slapped at him.

The girl retreated to her barstool in the corner.

Three minutes later, the door opened again and the skinny woman strode back in. She walked straight to the back of the bar, right up behind Teeny. Then she pulled out a small shiny gun and shot him twice in the back.

The bar went dead silent.

Teeny put his hands around Nancy's waist, lifted her to her feet, and pushed her off a little. Then he stood up and turned around. "What're you doin', Holly? That hurt."

She fired the gun again, point blank at the center of his chest, and kept firing until the gun said 'click' instead of 'bang'. Then she stopped and stared at him, the little gun still between her two hands, still inches from the big man's chest.

Teeny put his hand over his heart. He took it away and considered the bright smear of blood on it. "I told you, Holly, cut it out. That _hurt_."

She pulled the trigger again. And again. And again.

Teeny's face went dark and thunderous.

Igor Zubec reached over the bar, grabbed the little girl by the back of her shirt, and hauled her across to his side. He dropped her to the floor and shoved her under the bar between the kegs.

She heard the shouts and screams, the hits and the breaking furniture that followed, but she didn't see any of it. In the brief pause between when the yelling stopped and the cops arrived, Zubec hustled her out the back door.

The little girl clutched her book tight to her chest and went in search of another refuge.

* * *

**2012**

"Twenty-two caliber?" Reese guessed.

Christine nodded grimly. "He bought it for her, for her birthday. He was bigger then."

"That's hard to imagine."

"She's going to kill him," Christine repeated with certainty.

Reese looked down the bench. The woman was seated between him and Finch. Thirty yards away, Lis and Clay were still on the grass, hugging and kissing, talking and crying.

Finch tapped on his tablet. "Holly Goode. Sentenced to eighteen years in prison for felonious assault and attempted murder. He waited nearly two decades for her to get out of prison, so he could marry the woman who tried to kill him."

"He retired after the shooting," Christine said. "Moved upstate. Nobody could figure out why."

"To be close," Finch reported. "So he could visit her in prison."

"She's going to kill him. Or get him killed."

Reese frowned. "You were, what, ten years old? What were you doing in a bar?"

"Hiding."

"From your father?"

"From my mother. My father was just crazy. My mother was …"

"Evil," Finch supplied.

"That," Christine confirmed. "Teeny knew her. Knew her temper. So he let me hang out there at night, when the library was closed."

Finch looked up from the tablet. "The bar. The Hemlock. It's at the same address as Chaos."

"Yeah. It was The Happy Hours in between, but it's the same building."

"Is that bar built on an Indian burial ground or something?"

Christine shrugged. "Could be. The weird all comes to Chaos. It always has."

"And Zubec?" John asked. "Has he been with you your whole life?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Reese looked at the young lovers again. "Are we sure about those two? They're actually happy together. Seems like maybe we should give them a chance."

"They're much too young," Finch countered.

"Romeo and Juliet were young."

"And they ended up dead."

"Six dead by the final curtain," Christine added.

Reese shook his head. "So young, and so untender?"

"So young, my lord, and true," she countered instantly.

"King Lear," Finch sighed. "Such well-read companions I have."

It pleased Reese to hear a rare compliment on his literacy. He decided to quit while he was ahead. "I'll wait for the parents," he said. "You two should go get some dinner and have that talk."

Christine nodded, but Finch shook his head. "I'm afraid Miss Fitzgerald has a previous engagement tonight."

"I do?"

"Thursday night. Movies with Agent Donnelly?"

"What?" Reese asked.

"No, not this week. He flew out to some conference this afternoon. Cyber-weapons, I think."

"Ahh."

"Wait," Reese insisted. "You're dating _Donnelly_?"

"We're not dating," she answered. "I've been emphatically friend-zoned by Agent Donnelly."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he won't sleep with her," Finch reported, with just a little too much satisfaction.

"Did you put her up to this?" Reese demanded.

"I had nothing to do with it, I assure you."

"But you knew about it."

"I have been aware, yes."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't … relevant."

"I am sitting right here," Christine complained.

"Donnelly's heading up a task force dedicated to finding me, and you don't think it's _relevant _that he's trying to cultivate _her _as a source?"

"Miss Fitzgerald won't tell him anything."

"Then why is she dating him?"

"Still sitting right here," Christine repeated.

"I have no idea." Finch turned to the young woman. "Why are you dating him?"

She sighed, exasperated with both of them. "He intrigues me."

"He intrigues you because he tells you no."

"Well … yeah. Partly."

Reese stared at them. "I do not want you sleeping with _Donnelly_ to protect _me_!"

Christine looked at him, puzzled. Then she looked at Finch. Then she looked back, patted his knee. "Thanks, John. That's, uh, that's very big of you," she said wryly.

"Christine …"

"John. I asked him out because he was interesting. And it went nowhere. We go see an old movie once a week, when he's not working. We talk about … old movies, mostly. He asks about you, every time. I tell him I don't know you, every time. And he won't sleep with me because he can't stop thinking about _you_. Which I find somewhat annoying, and also somewhat intriguing. But in a few weeks he'll get bored and go away. They all do. So don't worry about it."

"Damn it, Christine …."

"Mr. Reese," Finch said calmly.

"And how could you let her …"

"_John_."

Reese looked at him. Finch didn't move, didn't explain. His eyes said everything._ I've got this. You don't need to worry about it. Trust me. _John stood up and took a few steps away from the bench. He believed that Finch hadn't arranged it. But Christine was all but fanatically obedient to him; he could have stopped her with a word. He hadn't. So the genius hadn't technically pimped out his young apprentice to the federal agent. He'd just turned his back while she offered herself up to him.

And the only one that John wasn't pissed off at in the whole situation was Donnelly himself. Donnelly who wouldn't sleep with Christine because he was too busy thinking about_ him_.

"Fine," he said. He turned around. "If Donnelly's not going to show, then you might as well go have your talk."

"It can wait …" Finch began.

"It's waited long enough." Reese had been more than patient with his employer, but that was done. He'd let himself forget how ruthless the billionaire could be. If he was going to use Christine in his endless schemes, he might as well use her for something important. And it might as well start right now.

"John …" she began.

"Don't let him out of your sight," John warned her, "or he'll find an excuse to disappear."

Finch stood up. "Mr. Reese."

"Tell her," Reese insisted. "Tell her tonight. She needs to know."

Their eyes locked. Finch's face was expressionless, unreadable. Reese knew he was pushing too hard. He didn't care. He was angry. _Christine with Donnelly. How the hell had Finch thought that was anything like a good idea?_

_Why does it make me so angry?_

He pushed the thought away. "Harold," he said, more calmly, "talk to her. If you don't think you can tell her, then let me, but we need her onboard."

Christine stood up then and moved very close to Finch. "You're scaring me, guys."

"You should be scared," Reese told her.

"John …"

"All right," Finch said firmly. "All _right_." He reached out and touched Christine's hand. "All right. Mr. Reese is right. We should talk, tonight. If you have a few hours. If you're willing."

She didn't answer out loud. She simply laced her fingers through his.

Reese nodded, satisfied, his anger draining away. "Good. Go. Eat. Talk. I'll watch the kids."

Finch nodded. His mouth was very tight, but he didn't argue any further. He turned away, leading the young woman.

Christine hesitated. "John. About Donnelly. It's nothing."

_If it's nothing, why are you telling me?_ _Why should it matter, to either of us?_ Reese simply nodded and turned away.

When he looked back, they were gone.


	13. Chapter 13

A silver BMW with Connecticut plates parked at the edge of the park. Reese strolled over to the newsstand and bought a paper, then sat on the bench near the car and paged through it.

The mother and father that got out of the car were middle-aged, well dressed, and deeply worried. When the young lovers walked up from the park, they converged on the girl. Both Lis and her mother began to cry. Clay stood a little ways off, awkward. He glanced at Reese, then looked away.

He looked, just a little, like he wished someone would hug him, too.

After several minutes of fussing, the mother turned to the young man. "You should come back with us, Eddie. Your family's worried about you."

He shook his head miserably. "They don't want to see me."

The woman stepped away from Elisa, walked over to the boy and put her arm around him. "You're wrong. I'm sure you're wrong. Your mother must be worried sick about you."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

She steered him toward the car. The boy shot another look at Reese, but he moved with her.

Reese shrugged. Going home had been one of the options they'd given the boy.

The women got in the car. The father held the back door open for Clay. But before he could get in, he touched the boy's shoulder and stopped him. "I'm glad you're coming home with us," he said, his voice so low that Reese could barely catch it. "But if you're going to keep seeing Elisa, there are going to be _rules_."

Clay shot one last, desperate look at Reese. Then he got in the car. The father shut the door, rolled his eyes, and got behind the wheel.

Reese chuckled behind the newspaper. _Rule from Dad_. That sounded like an excellent idea.

* * *

They got take-out and went back to Chaos: Christine, Finch and Bear. They barely spoke along the way. Finch was trying to figure out exactly what to say and how to say it. Christine seemed to be simply waiting. They went upstairs to her apartment in silence.

The dog bounded through the door and immediately sought out the kitten. He found her sleeping on the computer chair and picked her up by the scruff of her neck. She protested, loudly. Finch started after him, but Christine touched his arm. "They're okay," she promised.

While he watched with concern, the dog dropped the kitten onto the rug in front of the couch and proceeded to bathe her roughly with his tongue. Smokey continued to protest, in decibels that a body that size should not have been able to produce. Then she rolled onto her back to have her belly cleaned.

Christine carried the food to the kitchen. She tucked the bags into the refrigerator; neither of them was hungry. Finch sat down on the couch. "Bear," he said quietly.

The dog looked at him. Then he picked up the kitten, carried her over, and dropped her, still complaining, into Finch's lap.

Harold had never liked cats much, and this one was covered with dog drool. But she was undeniably cute. She sat up on his knee and regarding him calmly with her steel-blue eyes. He reached up hesitantly and petted her. Her fur was predictably damp, but beneath that it was very sleek. She had grown to nearly the size of his hand.

Smokey began to purr, again far more loudly than her size should have allowed.

She licked Finch's hand several times. Then she walked up his thigh, stepped clumsily down onto the couch, and waved a lazy paw at Bear. The dog obediently took her in his mouth again and carried her back to the carpet. He lay down; she snuggled against his side, still purring.

Finch looked up. Christine sat at the other end of the couch, watching him, waiting. Her blue eyes were wide, patient. Wary.

"She's cute," he commented lightly, gesturing to the little cat.

"She has John's eyes. I'm not sure how he managed that."

"Coincidence, I suppose."

"Sure." She sat back. She was being very careful about the space between them, Finch noted. Consciously careful. Giving him space.

She was ridiculously good at reading him.

Finch looked at his hands in his lap. He had very short fingers, he noted, not for the first time. Good for a qwerty keyboard; terrible for a piano. Not that he'd ever had any musical talent anyhow. He could appreciate music, certainly, but he could not string together more than the most rudimentary tune …

He looked at Christine again. Her own hands were folded in her lap. She was waiting, watching. But the longer his silence continued, the more frightened she became.

His words weren't going to ease her fears any, Finch thought grimly. He opened his mouth, and then closed it.

Christine leaned forward just a little. "How can I help, Random?"

_Random_, he thought. _Prince Random of Amber. Zelazny's rogue turned ruler. You are the only woman in the world who has ever habitually compared me to a prince, even a fictional one. I'm actually far closer to the Frog Prince of fairy stories. But you don't see that, do you? You will never see me that way._

"About a year ago," he began, "before I found you again, we encountered a very talented hacker in the course of an investigation. She called herself Root. We managed to stop her from framing an innocent man for murder. But she got away."

"Root is the woman in the pictures?"

"Yes." Finch took a deep breath. "A little over a month ago she re-appeared. She'd learned about the Machine, and about the Numbers."

"The … ?"

"What you called the Medusa. Although the Hydra would be a more apt description. The Machine."

"The Machine?" Despite her anxiety, a little smile danced around in her eyes. "No name, not even a project designation number? You just call it the Machine?"

Finch came up with his own wan smile. "You know, I knew that was the part of this story that you'd latch onto."

"How can you not give it a name?"

"It's one of a kind. It doesn't need a name."

She sighed, exasperated. "And what are Numbers?"

"You are. Were." Finch started over, from the beginning. He told her about the irrelevants list, the Numbers. He skimmed over how he'd found and hired John Reese, but went into some detail about how they worked. By the time he got back to Caroline Turing and her fascination with the Machine, he was calm and the words flowed easily.

Until he got to Alicia Corwin's murder. The words started to stick then. But Christine scooted a little closer on the couch, put her hand lightly on his arm, and that helped. Bear left his kitten and came to put his head on Finch's knee, and that helped, too. Smokey woke, complained loudly, and stalked off to the bedroom.

Finch got through it. All of it.

When he was finished, Christine warmed up the food and they made each other eat, though neither of them had much appetite. She asked a few questions, not the judgmental sort but just to clarify details. She was processing, Finch could see, and it would take a while. Christine on-task, meticulous, methodical, detail-oriented.

In the end, they sat together silently for a long time.

"I should go," Finch finally said. He was very tired. His neck hurt, and his back, and his hip. "If you have more questions, later on …"

"I'll call you."

"She's not here now, Christine. You don't need to be afraid yet."

"I know."

Finch studied her. She was quiet; her hands, her eyes, her voice. He couldn't get a read on her. Tiny quick flashes of emotion blinked and vanished. Fear, certainly. Anger. Determination. She'd gone deep in her own thoughts, and she'd shut him out.

_She does what I do_, Finch thought, not for the first time. _Maybe I should make her go out for a beer._ _Mr. Reese would_. But Christine was clearly as exhausted as he was, emotionally and physically. She'd had two days of constant company with Elisa Holland, and now she had the whole story of Root to digest. _She does what I do, and she processes the way I do. An unrepentant introvert. That means she needs a minimum of two days of solitude to recover from this. _He made a mental note to call her late Saturday and make her go out with him, for a beer or anything else she wanted. _No, not call. Just show up and insist. Don't give her a chance to refuse._

Unless there was a new Number by then. There probably would be.

Still, he might be able to get away for a few hours.

_I'll deal with that on Saturday,_ Finch decided. He'd need until then to recover, too. He stood up stiffly and looked around for the dog. "Bear?" he called.

There was a pause, and then a distinct two-part thud of the dog getting down off the bed. Bear came back into the living room, carrying the kitten again.

"You do not sleep on beds," Finch said sternly.

The dog wagged his tail endearingly. He dropped the kitten at Christine's feet.

Smokey yawned, stretched, and meowed loudly. Then she clawed her way up the front of the couch and settled in for another nap.

* * *

Carter pushed through the press of people to where Fusco was nursing a beer at the bar. He looked very much alone in the crowd. "Hey," she said, squeezing in next to him.

He looked at her. "Hey, Carter. Want a beer?" He waved to the bartender.

"Thanks." She looked around. "Hey, I, uh, I found that file you left for me. I'm sorry about before. I really thought you were pulling my leg."

Fusco frowned at her. "What file?"

"About Fitzgerald. The kid, the shooting?"

He shook his head. "I didn't leave you that file, Carter. Last time I saw it …" He stopped, made a face. "Last time I saw it, Mr. Kneecaps had it."

"Ahh. Figures." Carter picked up her beer and took a long drink. "I still don't get it, though."

"What?"

"After what happened, the girl's still … you know. The way she acted when you walked into that bar. Like you were her best friend in the world."

Fusco drank, too. "She's like that with everybody. Next time you walk in there, _you'll_ be her best friend in the world."

"You shot her father, Fusco. I know you didn't have any choice, but how does somebody get over something like that?"

Fusco looked at her for a long moment. Finally he shrugged. "That's the kind of girl she is. The kind of girl she's always been."

They sat quietly for a moment and drank.

"You're lucky," Carter finally said.

Fusco nodded seriously. "I know."

* * *

John Reese waited in the car – Christine's car – in the alley outside the Chaos Café. It was dark, and raining again. The café was busy, as usual. Under-thirties, mostly, gathered around their laptops and vast mugs of coffee. He could hear the bass notes of the music from across the street, occasionally friendly shouts, laughter.

There were soft lights on in the apartment on the top floor.

Reese glanced at his watch. Three hours and twenty minutes since they'd left the park together. That was good. It meant that Finch had had plenty of time to tell Christine all the details about Root.

It also meant John had had time to get over being angry about the Donnelly situation. He wasn't quite there yet; he still didn't like it. But he was getting there. Yes, he acknowledged, Finch could have stopped it with a single word of disapproval. But given the number of men Christine Fitzgerald dated, that was a bad precedent to set. Screening her dates could become a full-time job.

None of them seemed to last, anyhow.

When he thought about it, someone like Donnelly might do Christine a world of good. He was the steady sort, patient, reliable, even-tempered. He might be a stabilizing influence in her life. And he seemed too smart to leave his dirty socks on the floor, which Reese guessed was a breaking-up offense in Christine's OCD world.

_You don't get to mock her neatness_, he told himself, _when you have hospital corners and a drum-tight blanket on your own bed right now._ It was no wonder her interested tended toward military men. Uncle Sam had already trained them for her.

And, too, that potential relationship would have been much simpler if it weren't for the fact that Christine would have to lie to him repeatedly about whether she knew his Man in the Suit. Which would have been simpler if Reese had taken Finch's first suggestion and simply let him vanish from her life …

He looked up at the apartment windows again. _Well, that ship's already sailed. _He didn't regret it.

He couldn't honestly even fault Donnelly for trying to poach one of John's assets, since the agent was completely unaware that she _was_ his asset.

Reese took a long breath. _Not as asset. Stop thinking of her as an asset. Christine's a friend. Finch's, and mine. _

_But she is undeniably an asset, too. _

It broke all the rules the CIA had trained into him. Asset or friend, not both. You could be friendly with an asset, but that wasn't the same. It was essential to maintain separation; an agent might be reluctant to exploit a friend if it became necessary.

_To exploit, or to sacrifice …_

The front door of the café opened, and Finch came out, with Bear on his leash. Christine was with them. They all stopped under the front awning together. Bear looked happy enough, but from their body language, the humans were both exhausted.

While he watched, Christine put her arms around the genius. He hugged her back. Reese nodded with satisfaction. Finch disliked physical contact with most people. Christine Fitzgerald was one of the few exceptions; Will Ingram, his former partner's son, was the other. Since the kidnapping, Finch had been even more reserved than usual. If he was willing to let himself be hugged, he'd taken a huge step in his recovery.

Finch opened an umbrella, took the dog, and went to his car.

John waited.

Christine waited, too, until the car was out of sight. Then she stepped out into the rain and walked down the street to the little corner store.

She came back out a few minutes later and stood under the store's awning. She tapped one hand firmly and repeatedly against the palm of the other one, almost as if she was clapping. When she stopped, Reese realized she had a fresh pack of cigarettes in her hand. She opened it, shook out a single smoke, and lit it.

Reese nodded to himself. Christine didn't smoke often; when he'd first met her, she's had the same pack of cigarettes for a month. But when she was under pressure, stressed, it was her go-to outlet. There were worse choices she could make.

She leaned against the building and smoked rapidly. As before, she held the glowing end in the curve of her hand, concealing its light from view. An old soldier's trick, one she'd learned from her father. When the first cigarette was nearly gone, she lit a second from the first before grinding it out against the wall.

When the second cigarette was gone, she field-stripped both butts. But she didn't return to the café. She stayed where she was for a long moment. Then she pushed off the wall, walked across the street, and came down the alley toward the car.

_Of course she knew I was here_, John thought wryly.

She got into the passenger seat and closed the door. Before John could speak, she touched her fingertips to his lips. Then she touched his ear, where his earpiece was on but silent. Finally she turned forward, opened the glove compartment, and ran her fingers along the top of it, searching for something.

A very quiet white static began in the earwig. Reese reached up and slipped it out. "You have a jammer in the car?"

"Yes."

"You might have mentioned that."

"I was going to tell you when you brought the car back."

Reese nodded, accepting her gentle rebuke. He'd borrowed the car for a night and kept it for a month. But there was a more important issue: She had protected the car from surveillance, when there was only one person who would be likely to be listening in.

She was shielding their conversation from _Finch_.

He didn't have a problem with that, but it was surprising.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked, without preliminaries. Her tone wasn't judgmental or angry; she seemed genuinely puzzled. And hurt.

"You were in Argentina when he was taken."

"They have airports. And internet."

"I didn't know how much you knew then. About the Machine. Harold's not good at sharing that kind of information, even when it's important."

Christine nodded thoughtfully. "I noticed."

"If it happens again," Reese promised, "or anything like it, trust me, you'll be the first one I call."

"Good."

Reese studied her. In the shadows of the dark car, her skin seemed much too pale. But her face was calm, her words even. There was rage and there was fear, but they were well below the surface. Her mind was cold and functioning. "So Harold told you about Root. Where's your head on this?"

"Thermite," she answered flatly.

"Thermite?"

"I started with find her and kill her. Escalated to find her and kill her with fire. Then to find her, kill her, stuff her mouth with garlic, drive a stake through her heart, cut her head off, and burn the body. Then I dismissed old superstitions and went modern. Find her, kill her, thermite."

"Always knew there was something I liked about you."

"I hacked his servers and ended up in a padded cell. She _kidnapped_ him and she's still running the streets."

"Not for long," Reese promised. "We will find her."

Christine nodded solemnly.

"You can have tonight," Reese continued.

"What?"

"You can have tonight. Spin your scenarios, indulge your darkest fantasies, wallow in your imaginary revenge. Have at it. Enjoy. But tomorrow I need you to be smart again."

"I can get her …"

"No, you can't," Reese snapped harshly. "You need to get this straight. Root is incredibly dangerous, and she is nothing that you've met before. She's a psychopath — that's easy, you've dealt with a few of them. But she's also _smarter_ than you. And outside of Finch, I don't think you've met anybody like that."

"She's not …"

"She outsmarted me and Finch at the same time. She completely fooled us, caught us dead flat-footed. Don't kid yourself; she can fool you, too."

"But …"

"There is no _but,_ Christine. Listen to me. The knowledge that you have puts you in danger. If Root finds out that you have it, she _will_ come after you."

"Let her come," she said with raw defiance.

Reese shook his head. "You think if Root comes after you she'll try to get information from you. And you think you'll make her kill you before you'll help her get control of the Machine."

"I will …"

"You're wrong. If Root gets her hands on you, she won't ask you for information. And she won't kill you. _Root will use you to torture Finch."_

Christine stared at him. Her eyes got wide; her face went paler still. Reese was relieved to see his words get through. And he felt like a complete bastard. _She's sacred._ _Don't lighten up. Where Root is concerned, she cannot be scared enough._

"She couldn't break him," he went on ruthlessly. "She couldn't get to him by torturing Weeks — but she came close and she knows it. If she finds_ you_, someone he truly cares about, she has the leverage she needs. If she can get to you, she can get to him. She can use you destroy him. And believe me, she will."

Her mouth opened just a little, and her breath came in short little sips. Her pupils were huge, even for the darkness. He didn't stop.

"So get this straight. I know you're angry. I know you want to go after Root. You want to chase her, and you think it doesn't matter if she catches you. You think it doesn't matter if you throw your life away to stop her. You're wrong. You are absolutely _wrong_. It matters. If you care about Harold, then doing this right is the most important thing you will ever do."

Christine turned and looked out the windshield into the rain. Reese waited, letting her work it through. It took a few minutes. Her breathing slowed, deepened, and he knew that was deliberate, that she was calming herself. Finally she swallowed. "I could leave. I _should_ leave."

Reese frowned at her, surprised. It wasn't a solution he had anticipated. "Leave the café? Your business, your friends? The city?" New York City was the only home she had ever known.

"Yes."

"And never touch another computer as long as you live?"

Her breath caught on that one, but after a moment she answered, "Yes."

Her voice was small, sad, but full of certainty. _Damn_, Reese thought. _I knew she was devoted to Finch, but __damn_. "No," he said flatly.

"It would work."

"No," Reese repeated. "She doesn't get to win. She doesn't get to take your life away."

"If it would protect him … take me out of the equation …"

"That was the first solution Harold came up with," he told her. Her head snapped around. "To never talk to you or see you again, to keep you safe. I talked him out of it. Don't make me regret it."

"But … why?"

"Because Harold needs you."

She shook her head, bewildered. "He needs _me_? For _what_?"

"You connect him to the world," John told her simply, with certainty. "You're his Chaos."

She stared at him. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back. "Then what do I do?"

"You help us. And you trust us." He put his hand on her shoulder. Her shirt was a little damp from the rain, and her skin felt too cool beneath it. Her eyes held his, searching, desperate. She was usually so sure of herself, so perceptive. Reese didn't enjoy seeing her so lost, but it was necessary. She needed to be afraid, of Root and for Finch. But too much fear was an unhelpful as too little. "We know now who she is, what she wants, and how she works. We know she's coming back. We can stop her, and we will. But you need to do exactly what you're told, when you're told. We need to stay coordinated and to limit our exposure. Understand?"

Christine nodded.

"And right now we just need you to watch for her. _Just watch_. You can't go looking for her, no matter how tempted you are, no matter how careful you think you're being. Got it?"

"Yeah."

He heard a little more certainty in her voice, but it wasn't enough. He squeezed her shoulder, then took his hand away. "I don't think you're very good at doing nothing." _What had Finch said once? You need a purpose. More specifically, you need a job._ She needed something, anything, useful to considered a moment, rolling over in his mind all the things he might need if Root returned. Her computer skills, certainly, if Finch was out of the picture. Beyond that? "What do you know about guns?"

She looked almost relieved. "Not enough."

"I can teach you, if you're …"

"Yes."

He gave her a fleeting grin. She'd grabbed at the idea like he'd thrown her a lifeline. _Always knew there was something I liked about her,_ he thought again. "But here's the deal. You don't carry until I say you're ready. Right?"

"Fine."

"Finch won't like it."

"Finch doesn't need to know."

Reese studied her. Her eyes were calm again, focused, clear. He'd read her exactly right. She needed something concrete and at least potentially helpful to do. If he had any say, she was never going to have to shoot anybody. But backup was a good thing. And Root was damn unpredictable. If Christine was going to have a gun, at least he could be sure she knew what she was doing with it.

"I'll call you tomorrow, unless something comes up. And, uh, I'll bring the car back."

She half-smiled. "There's no rush. I never drive anywhere in the city anyhow. Parking's too big a pain in the ass."

"Then why did you buy a car?"

Christine tilted her head. "Who says I bought it?"

Reese blinked. So the sweet little car was yet another Finch arrangement. "Ohhhhh."

"When you decide to switch up, bring it back. Until then, don't worry about it."

"Fine. Do we need to talk about Donnelly?"

"No. We don't."

"I liked it better when you were chasing military men."

"He was a Marine."

"Of course he was," Reese smirked. "That explains a lot about him, actually."

"Be nice, John."

"I still don't see the attraction."

Christine shrugged. "He's forbidden fruit. Almost like trying to seduce a priest."

"Have you done that?"

"Not as far as you know. But Random's right – the fact that he tells me 'no' is a big part of the fascination."

"You don't like to be told no, do you?"

"Nope. Not about anything." She reached for the door handle, then hesitated. "Thank you. For clarifying, about Root. I needed to hear it the way that you put it. Random wasn't nearly … blunt enough. Terrifying enough."

"I didn't think he would be." She opened the door. "Hey, Christine?"

"Yeah?"

Reese held his hand out. "Give me the rest of cigarettes."

"What?"

"You've had two. That's enough."

She genuinely smiled. "Kiss my ass."

He nodded, satisfied. She was herself again. As much as she could be, under the circumstances. "Good night, Christine."

"Good night, John."

She climbed out of the car and walked back to the café. John watched her safely though the front door, then reached into the glove box and turned off the jammer. He slipped his earwig back in and turned it on, but there was no voice in his ear.

Finch was going to need some down time after tonight. So was Christine. If John was honest with himself, so was he. But they had the girl on board now, fully briefed, ready to go with the briefest instruction. Solidly in the asset column. Root would come back. John was certain of that. But he was one step closer to being ready for her.

He watched the café for a moment longer. It was bright, loud, warm. Christine had disappeared into it. Her own safe haven, her carefully constructed world. She would have abandoned it right now, tonight, to protect Finch. And Finch would have left her, though she was a source of rare joy to him; he would never have seen her or spoken to her again, to protect her. He had left Grace Hendricks that way, for that reason, and though his relationship with Christine was very different, Finch had to know exactly how much it would hurt. And yet it had been his first instinct.

There was a word for a relationship like that, though Reese doubted that either of them would call it by its real name. In his book, it was_ love_, pure and simple.

It was not the kind of blind, self-destroying love that Elisa had for Cash, nor the senseless passion that Teeny harbored for his murderous Holly. It was closer to the love that Rosa Antonucci had displayed: Completely aware of the consequences and yet willing to make the sacrifice without hesitation. Not innocent, not deluded. Honest, wide-eyed, fully informed. Knowing exactly what it would cost. And still willing to pay the price. Any price.

_If Jessica had been alive when I got to New Rochelle_, Reese thought. He stopped, feeling a sudden sharp pain in his lower ribs. He put his hand there, though it was only a scar now. _Thanks, Kara_, he thought with mild bitterness. _I will never think of New Rochelle without feeling that pain. _He shook his head._ If Jessica had been alive, if I'd know she was unhappy, in danger, with Peter Arndt …_

… he would have asked her to do the same thing. To leave everything she knew, her home, her job, her family, to turn her back on all of it and run away with him. A cabin in Montana, Snow had guessed, and he would have been pretty much right. A little house in the country, a quiet ordinary job, an old car … a home, just him and Jessica and maybe a baby or two. And a dog. Hiding from the Agency, looking over his shoulder forever. Cut off from their pasts, but together.

He could have been happy. He could have been _so_ happy.

He didn't know how happy Jessica would have been. But he would have asked her. He would have let her make that sacrifice.

He wasn't sure that she would have said yes. And if she had, he wasn't sure she would have known what she was agreeing to. Not the way Christine did, or Finch did, or Rosa Antonucci did.

And if she'd been happy with Peter?

Could he have wished her well and walked away?

John closed his eyes. None of it mattered any more. She hadn't been happy. And she hadn't been alive. Jessica was gone, and with her his chance for anything even remotely like a more conventional life.

A happy life.

His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. For every time he had cursed the device in the past, John blessed it now. He opened his eyes as he took it out. "Finch."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reese …" Finch sounded very weary.

"We have a new Number."

"Yes."

"I'll be there shortly."

Reese put the phone away and started the car. He paused a moment more to look toward the café. Loud, bright, warm. It was about as far from a cabin in Montana as you could get. It was Christine's sanctuary, her own cabin in the woods, New York City Edition. She'd built it for herself, and she'd damn well earned it.

Christine had Chaos. Finch had Christine. And John had a purpose, and a job, and Finch.

His mouth narrowed into a tight line. Root didn't get to take any of that away from any of them.

"Thermite," he mused aloud, easing the car into gear.

"I beg your pardon?" Finch asked in his ear.

John smiled grimly. "Nothing, Finch. Just … indulging a little fantasy. Put some coffee on for me, will you? I'm on my way."

_The End_


End file.
